BY  LOUIS  DODGE 

ROSY 

THE  RUNAWAY  WOMAN 
CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 
BONNIE  MAY 


THE  SANDMAN'S  FOREST 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


ROSY 


KNIV.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  I-O8  ANOELES 


ROSY 


By 

LOUIS  DODGE 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK    :::::::     1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  April,  1919 


TO 
MR.  AND  MRS.  HENRY  CLAY  GIBSON 


2129024 


ROSY 


ROSY 


CHAPTER  I 

HE  had  never  known  that  the  darkness  could  fall  so 
swiftly,  so  ominously.  He  was  bewildered,  a  little  dis- 
mayed. He  took  a  shorter  hold  on  the  bridle-rein, 
ignoring  the  horse's  fractious  efforts  to  have  its  head 
again. 

He  had  known  as  he  jogged  slowly  up  the  mountain 
road  that  the  sun  must  be  sinking  below  the  valley 
horizon,  over  beyond  the  mountain.  It  had  sunk  be- 
yond the  mountain's  summit  hours  ago.  But  he  had 
given  no  thought  to  the  approach  of  night.  His  medi- 
tations were  of  so  bitter  and  absorbing  a  kind  that 
they  allowed  no  room  for  lesser  problems.  Subcon- 
sciously he  had  foreseen  that  night  would  overtake  him 
on  the  road;  but  there  would  be  a  little  light  from  the 
stars  through  the  trees  which  wrapped  the  mountain 
as  with  a  kind  of  shabby  robe,  and  in  any  case  it  would 
be  possible  to  see  the  road,  if  ever  so  faintly,  when  he 
was  ready  to  turn  back. 

Now  he  realized  that  every  vestige  of  the  road  had 
been  blotted  out — absorbed.  He  could  not  even  see 
his  horse's  head.  He  seemed  suspended  in  space  but 
for  the  knowledge  that  certain  muscles  and  sinews  and 
joints  in  the  living  mechanism  beneath  him  were  ready 
to  bear  him  on  his  way  if  he  would  only  relax  his  grip 
on  the  rein.  He  had  a  realization  of  the  horse's  impa- 
tience as  well  as  of  contact  with  its  perfect  body. 

Then  the  first  warning  of  the  rain  came,  in  the  form 

3 


4  ROSY 

of  tiny  wisps  of  dampness,  like  a  wet  veil — bearing  the 
same  relation  to  water  that  a  whisper  bears  to  a  full  cry. 

The  cause  of  the  sudden,  extraordinary  darkness  was 
explained  now.  A  storm  had  gathered  about  the  sum- 
mit of  the  mountain  and  was  sweeping  down  upon  him. 

There  came  to  him  a  clear  realization  of  the  danger 
he  was  in.  He  called  to  mind  certain  parts  of  the  road 
over  which  he  had  climbed.  Time  and  again  he  had 
skirted  lofty  walls  of  rock  on  one  hand,  with  sheer 
abysses  a  thousand  feet  deep  on  the  other  side.  The 
margin  between  the  road  and  these  dark  gulfs  was  some- 
times uncomfortably  scant — a  matter  of  inches.  Even 
at  high  noon  it  was  the  rule  of  the  mountain  folk  and 
of  all  others  who  climbed  the  mountain  to  proceed 
warily  when  these  narrow  passes  had  to  be  traversed; 
and  at  night — such  a  night  as  was  now  falling,  especially 
— it  would  have  seemed  quite  impossible  for  the  trav- 
eller to  escape  death  if  he  undertook  to  thread  his  way 
past  the  bottomless  depths  which  lay  only  an  arm's 
length  away. 

Clearly  he  could  not  go  back.  But  was  it  a  simpler 
matter  to  try  to  continue  on  his  way?  He  knew  the 
road  well  and  he  was  impelled  to  admit  to  himself  that 
the  dangers  ahead  were  quite  as  great  as  those  which 
lay  behind.  All  the  way  up  to  the  bench — a  broad, 
terrace-like  level  which  circumscribed  the  mountain 
some  three-fourths  of  the  way  to  the  top — he  must  pass, 
at  intervals,  just  such  ledges  as  those  which  marked 
the  course  over  which  he  had  come. 

The  only  alternative  seemed  to  be  to  dismount  and 
remain  on  the  road  all  night — or  at  least  until  the  clouds 
broke.  But  this  course  he  instantly  refused  to  con- 
sider. He  had  planned  to  be  back  in  Pisgah  some  time 
during  the  evening.  He  must  take  the  late  train  to 
Little  Rock.  He  had  given  his  word  to  a  jailer  that  a 


ROSY  5 

certain  prisoner  would  be  at  the  gates  of  the  State 
prison  the  next  morning — and  that  prisoner  was  himself. 

In  his  mind  he  hopelessly  surveyed  the  houses  he 
had  passed  as  he  climbed  the  mountain.  They  were  too 
far  back,  even  the  nearest,  to  be  reached.  As  for  the 
prospect  before  him,  it  held  even  less  of  hope.  There 
were  no  human  habitations  between  him  and  the  bench, 
nearly  a  mile  farther  up.  He  had  reached  an  altitude 
at  which  nature  no  longer  provided  the  spacious  pockets 
and  fertile  bits  of  plateau  where  men  might  wrest  a  liv- 
ing from  the  earth.  From  now  on,  up  to  the  bench — 
if  he  were  able  by  any  means  to  reach  that  far  haven — 
he  must  expect  to  be  alone  save  for  his  horse  and  the 
wild,  hidden  creatures  of  the  mountain. 

It  was  his  horse  which  solved  his  problem  for  him. 
During  his  brief  halt  and  his  moment  of  anxious  reflec- 
tion the  animal  had  not  ceased  to  champ  impatiently 
at  its  bit;  and  suddenly  its  headstrong  mood  was  mani- 
fested so  violently  that  the  man  was  forced  to  contem- 
plate a  new  peril.  What  if  the  horse  were  to  become 
uncontrollable  ? 

He  remembered  that  the  animal,  his  father's  now, 
had  been  owned  not  long  ago  by  a  German  farmer  who 
lived  up  on  the  mountain  bench — who  had  made  his 
living  for  a  good  many  years  by  raising  fruits  and  vines 
and  berries  on  a  highly  intensified  plan.  It  was  evident 
now  that  the  horse  was  bent  upon  reaching  its  old 
stable.  Indeed,  he  realized  now  that  when  he  set  out 
on  his  aimless  ride  in  the  afternoon  it  had  not  been  his 
will  which  had  brought  him  up  the  mountain  road,  with 
its  thousands  of  boyhood  associations,  but  the  will  of 
the  horse,  actuated  by  homesickness. 

He  knew  much  about  the  sagacity  of  horses  in  times 
of  peril:  of  their  keen  vision,  their  cautious  tread,  their 
self-control — or  was  it  merely  a  sense  of  location  sur- 


6  ROSY 

passing  that  of  human  beings?  Almost  involuntarily 
he  relaxed  his  grip  on  the  rein. 

The  result  was  immediately  reassuring.  He  was  mov- 
ing forward  again,  slowly,  smoothly.  Moreover,  he  had 
the  conviction  that  the  animal  had  consciously  assumed 
responsibility — that  it  had  realized  precisely  what  he 
had  realized,  and  that  it  was  rising  to  the  occasion  to 
perform  its  duty  perfectly. 

The  mist  which  had  heralded  the  approach  of  rain 
had  thickened  and  had  now  given  way  to  a  steady 
downpour.  But  the  time  was  summer  and  he  did  not 
mind  being  wet  to  the  skin.  His  clothes  would  be 
ruined;  but  after  to-morrow,  what  need  should  he  have 
of  the  clothing  of  a  free  man  ?  He  began  to  relax  some- 
what, to  breathe  more  easily.  He  realized  that  he  had 
done  well  to  trust  the  horse,  rather  than  to  seek  to  shape 
his  own  destiny  at  a  moment  when  he  was  actually  help- 
less. 

The  steady,  sure  beat  of  the  horse's  hoofs  increased 
his  assurance  as  the  moments  passed.  The  sense  of 
floating  through  space  was  not  diminished,  but  his 
anxiety  passed.  If  he  could  see  nothing,  it  was  plain 
that  his  horse  saw  for  him.  His  sense  of  direction,  of 
location,  asserted  itself  more  precisely,  and  presently 
he  found  himself  visualizing  the  way  along  which  he 
passed.  Here,  where  he  had  been  borne  around  a 
slight  curve,  his  surroundings  came  before  him  in  many 
of  their  outlines:  jagged,  overhanging  rocks  forming  an 
almost  complete  roof  over  the  mountain  road.  It  was 
here,  too,  that  the  traveller  by  day  was  constrained  to 
catch  his  breath  because  of  the  chasm  at  the  right,  with 
the  tops  of  great  trees  rising  like  the  miniature  trees  in 
a  German  picture  of  Christmas,  down  there  some  thou- 
sands of  feet  below.  It  was  here,  too,  that  the  tourist 
might  be  depended  upon  to  pause  and  sigh  with  delight 


ROSY  7 

over  the  vista,  through  ranks  of  trees  and  vast  aerial 
spaces,  of  the  river  and  the  valley  in  the  dim  distance. 

Presently  he  found  it  necessary  to  lean  well  forward 
to  maintain  his  equilibrium,  to  conform  to  the  altered 
position  of  the  horse.  The  ascent  had  become  much 
more  steep,  and  again  he  knew  exactly  where  he  was. 
It  was  here  that  the  road  lifted  to  the  sharpest  angle  of 
its  entire  course;  and  he  reminded  himself  that  it  was 
now  only  a  little  distance  farther  to  the  bench,  where 
the  perils  of  the  way  would  beset  him  no  longer,  and 
where  he  might  expect  to  discern  lighted  windows. 

For  a  moment  his  heart  bounded  with  joy  at  the 
thought  of  a  lighted  window  and  a  welcome,  perhaps, 
from  some  mountain  family  who  had  known  him  from 
boyhood,  and  who  knew  too  much  about  his  actual 
character  to  pay  very  much  attention  to  evil  chance 
and  report. 

Then  in  the  pitchy  darkness  his  lips  tightened  as  he 
pondered  whether,  indeed,  he  might  expect  a  welcome 
from  any  who  knew  him.  He  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  it  might  be  better,  after  all,  if  he  came  to  a  house 
where  he  had  never  been  known.  From  such  a  house 
he  would  not  be  turned  away,  since  it  was  the  way  of 
the  mountain  folk  to  be  hospitable  to  strangers,  who 
often  met  some  slight  mishap  on  the  road,  or  who,  un- 
acquainted with  the  way,  required  a  friendly  hand  or 
word  to  set  them  right. 

He  had  decided  definitely  what  he  should  do  upon 
reaching  the  bench.  The  horse  must  be  left  in  charge 
at  a  stable  somewhere,  to  be  sent  back  to  his  father  the 
next  day.  And  he  must  borrow  a  lantern  and  return 
down  the  mountain  road  on  foot.  As  for  his  own 
movements,  he  had  no  choice.  He  must  go  back  down 
the  mountain.  He  must  take  the  midnight  train  for 
Little  Rock.  He  had  given  his  word. 


8  ROSY 

His  next  emotion  was  of  quickened  respect,  of  affec- 
tion, for  the  horse  he  bestrode.  What  a  faithful  creature 
it  was,  to  be  sure !  It  had  behaved  with  wonderful  cir- 
cumspection from  the  moment  he  had  given  it  the  right 
to  move  freely.  He  felt  the  muscles  of  the  sturdy 
shoulders  rise  and  fall  against  his  knees.  He  experi- 
enced a  kind  of  ecstasy  from  a  realization  of  the  ani- 
mal's strength,  which  was  now  in  effect  his  own  strength. 
He  leaned  forward  and  stroked  the  silent,  purposeful 
creature's  neck;  he  spoke  as  to  a  friend  who  could  un- 
derstand. 

Then  he  strained  his  eyes  for  lights  in  the  distance, 
but  as  yet  not  a  light  was  to  be  seen. 

There  was  a  final  scrambling  ascent,  the  clatter  of 
loose  rocks  in  the  road,  and  then  he  knew  that  the 
bench  had  been  reached.  It  was  as  if  he  were  putting 
forth  less  energy  now,  because  the  horse's  task  had  be- 
come easier.  There  was  a  turn  almost  at  right  angles 
and  then  he  was  moving  along  a  level  road. 

Though  the  pall  of  blackness  had  thinned  almost  im- 
perceptibly, it  was  still  impossible  for  the  man  to  see 
his  own  hand  before  him.  He  tried  and  could  not  do 
so.  He  was  not  only  riding  through  the  rain,  he  was 
riding  through  the  sources  of  the  rain — the  dense  cloud 
which  crowned  the  mountain.  Yet  he  knew  that  his 
trial  was  all  but  at  an  end.  He  knew  that  he  was  now 
traversing  a  wide  road — a  well-kept  road.  Presently, 
he  knew,  there  would  be  houses  on  either  side  of  him; 
some  set  into  the  mountain,  and  others  clinging  like 
nests  in  the  meagre  pockets  which  overhung  the  valley. 

There  would  be  a  light  in  a  window  presently,  and  an 
open  door,  and  perhaps  a  welcome.  A  welcome  .  .  . 
well,  he  was  growing  less  confident  of  that.  Possibly 
not  a  welcome.  But  the  mountain  folk  would  recog- 
nize his  need,  and  when  he  explained  his  predicament 


ROSY  9 

they  would  not — they  could  not — fail  to  help  him,  so 
far  as  help  lay  in  their  power.  After  all,  it  was  only  a 
lantern  that  he  required,  and  a  shelter  for  his  horse  for 
the  night,  and  a  promise  that  the  animal  should  be  de- 
livered to  Pisgah  in  the  morning. 

It  was  just  then  that  a  new  quality  entered  into  his 
night's  adventure,  a  kind  of  sinister  quality.  He 
ought  to  be  able  to  see  the  cottage  lights  by  now,  but 
he  could  not  do  so.  He  seemed,  quite  suddenly,  to  be 
helplessly  adrift  in  fathomless  space,  alone,  shut  out, 
annihilated.  He  had  a  vision  of  the  valleys  below  him, 
dim  pictures  in  miniature,  but  it  was  as  if  the  mountain 
had  vanished  into  nothing,  leaving  him  at  a  great  height 
in  a  stormy  sky.  Those  cottage  lights  .  .  .  surely  on 
the  darkest  night  they  should  be  visible  a  hundred 
yards  or  so.  But  they  were  not.  He  had  a  momentary 
shuddering  sense  of  losing  his  bearings  wholly. 

He  tried  to  estimate  the  distance  he  had  covered  on 
the  bench  road,  so  that  he  might  guess  where  he  was. 
Had  he  passed  old  Jacob  Feld's  place — and  Springer's? 
Surely  he  had  done  so.  Yet  their  windows  were  only  a 
few  yards  from  the  road,  and  he  had  seen  nothing, 
heard  nothing.  He  tried  to  conquer  a  feeling  of  con- 
fusion, (of  incredulity.  After  all,  even  on  clear  nights 
the  bench  road  was  always  shrouded  in  deep  shadow, 
with  the  mountain  rising  sharply  on  one  hand  to  its 
summit,  and  thick  foliage  hanging  arch-like  overhead. 
And  just  now  there  was  added  that  impenetrable  mist 
...  he  shivered  a  little.  He  was  drenched  through 
and  the  night  air  was  becoming  cooler. 

If  he  had  really  passed  the  Feld  and  the  Springer 
places  he  must  be  close  to  the  cote-like  hut  of  the 
Woodridges;  and  he  forgot  all  minor  forms  of  perplex- 
ity when  he  thought  of  this.  Under  even  the  most 
pressing  circumstances  should  he  be  willing  to  enter 


io  ROSY 

Sam  Woodridge's  house — and  confront  Rosy?  No — 
no,  he  would  not  do  that;  though  for  an  instant  he 
smiled  grimly,  and  was  tempted.  What  would  they 
have  to  say  to  him,  the  Woodridges  above  all  others? 
But  no,  they  shouldn't  be  put  to  the  test.  And  in  any 
case  he  must  have  passed  their  obscure  little  hut  by 
now. 

Dear  Rosy !  He  recalled  her,  noisy,  all  alive,  candid, 
courageous,  a  wonderful  girl.  .  .  . 

He  lapsed  into  the  borders  of  dreamland;  and  when 
he  saw  a  light  at  last  it  came  to  him  with  the  effect  of  a 
shock. 

He  pulled  himself  together  sharply.  There  it  was, 
the  thing  he  had  been  looking  for;  a  light,  a  harbor. 

It  seemed  a  considerable  distance  away,  that  light. 
Perhaps  a  hundred  yards.  It  streamed  through  the 
window,  touching  cloud  and  rain  and  sending  its  blurred 
avenue  of  pale  illumination  toward  him.  No  part  of 
the  house  was  visible;  just  that  rectangle  of  dim  il- 
lumination. 

He  checked  a  first  impulse  to  call  out.  It  would  be 
more  becoming,  surely,  for  him  to  make  his  appear- 
ance as  modestly  as  possible.  He  would  not  summon 
any  man  as  if  he  had  the  right  of  other  men  to  do  so. 
He  must  sue  humbly  if  he  wished  to  be  befriended. 
He  dismounted  and  drew  the  bridle-rein  over  the  horse's 
head. 

A  hand  in  the  darkness  seemed  suddenly  to  pluck  his 
hat  from  his  head.  In  amazement  he  reached  out — and 
touched  a  dripping  limb  which  was  swaying  violently 
above  him.  He  understood;  he  had  come  into  contact 
with  a  tree.  He  murmured  "  Good ! "  and  tied  the  bridle- 
rein  to  the  convenient  limb.  He  groped  for  his  hat,  all 
about  his  feet,  but  it  seemed  to  have  been  spirited 
quite  away.  He  took  a  step  forward — and  drew  up, 


ROSY  ii 

aghast.  Then  slowly  he  exhaled  with  an  inarticulate, 
incredulous  sound. 

He  had  experienced  a  phenomenon  wholly  new  to 
him — an  optical  illusion.  He  had  been  sure  that  the 
light  in  that  window  had  been  a  considerable  distance 
from  him.  And  now,  as  if  by  some  magical  process,  it 
was  there  within  reach  of  his  hand.  He  could  have 
tapped  on  the  window-pane. 

He  had  the  sensations  of  a  patient  who  is  emerging 
from  the  influence  of  an  anaesthetic.  He  had  been  adrift 
in  a  limbo  of  things;  and  now  he  was  in  actual  contact 
with  a  window-sill,  and  he  was  looking  into  the  window 
and  beholding  the  edge  of  a  domestic  drama  of  some 
sort. 

A  man  and  a  woman  were  sitting  before  a  fireplace 
in  which  the  fires  of  winter  had  long  ago  ceased  to  burn. 
Their  sitting  here  seemed  to  be  merely  habitual — as  if, 
perhaps,  the  chairs  had  not  been  moved  since  the  fires 
had  been  ablaze  on  the  hearth — or  as  if  there  was  no 
room  for  them  elsewhere. 

The  woman  was  all  but  invisible;  the  hem  of  her 
skirt  was  discernible,  and  an  arm,  which  reclined  along 
the  top  of  a  chair.  But  even  that  arm — or  part  of  an 
arm — had  a  story  to  tell.  It  expressed  listlessness,  if 
not  dejection.  It  perfectly  harmonized  with  the  hearth 
from  which  the  vital  element  was  absent  and  which 
held  now  only  cold  ashes  to  tell  of  something  departed. 

The  outlines  of  the  man  who  sat  near  her  were  al- 
most completely  revealed  to  the  witness  outside  the 
window.  He  was  leaning  forward,  his  elbows  on  his 
knees,  his  hands  clasped  before  him — an  image  in  every 
detail  of  dissatisfaction  bordering  upon  dejection.  He 
was  so  motionless  that  he  might  have  been  supposed 
to  be  asleep,  yet  his  attitude  suggested  anything  but 
slumber.  For  though  sleep  may  distort  bodies  and  make 


12  ROSY 

them  seem  grotesque  or  helpless,  it  does  not  give  them 
the  aspect  of  anguish. 

So  the  drama  within  displayed  itself  until  the  man 
outside  stumbled  and  touched  the  window,  and  then 
the  classic  severity  of  the  scene  changed  with  electri- 
fying swiftness — changed  to  homely  comedy.  The  man 
sprang  to  his  feet  in  such  agitation  that  his  chair  was 
overturned.  He  looked  appealingly  to  the  woman  who 
was  his  companion.  He  was  terrified.  And  obviously 
in  response  to  a  signal  from  her  he  sped  toward  a  cor- 
ner of  the  room  and  scrambled  up  a  ladder  which  stood 
against  the  wall. 

He  was  gone!  He  might  have  been  a  mouse  in  a 
barn  scuttling  away  before  the  approach  of  a  cat. 

The  man  outside  recovered  from  his  surprise  suffi- 
ciently to  smile  faintly.  He  had  recognized  the  man 
within,  and  he  mused  coldly:  "Why  did  the  Almighty 
ever  make  a  coward?  I  never  saw  Nat  Minturn  yet 
but  what  he  seemed  about  to  run  or  hide.  For  my 
part — "  He  broke  off  abruptly.  "What's  Minturn 
doing  here?"  was  his  next  question.  "Whose  house  is 
it?" 

Instinct  seemed  to  reply  to  his  question;  or  perhaps 
some  object  in  the  room  had  touched  a  chord  in  his 
memory.  Could  it  possibly  be  .  .  .  ? 

He  groped  his  way  along  the  wall  until  his  hand  came 
upon  a  door-casing  and  a  door  and  a  latch.  He  forgot 
that  there  were  reasons  why  he  should  hesitate  to  an- 
nounce his  presence  before  any  man's  door.  He  forgot 
the  treacherous  road  over  which  he  had  come  and  the 
eerie  mountain  fastnesses  all  about  him.  He  lifted  his 
hand  and  knocked  on  the  door. 


CHAPTER  II 

THERE  was  just  that  measure  of  delay  which  any 
visitor  might  have  expected  and  then  the  door  opened. 
The  woman  who  had  been  partly  visible  through  the 
window  now  stood  with  her  hand  on  the  latch,  her  face 
peering  with  precisely  the  right  tone  of  inquiry  into  the 
darkness.  The  woman — or  should  it  be  said  the  child  ? 
It  was  a  vigorous,  robust  figure  that  stood  in  the  door- 
way, but  the  candid,  wide-open  eyes  and  the  soft  com- 
plexion were  of  the  sort  which  one  associates  with 
childhood  rather  than  womanhood. 

"Well  .  .  .  Rosy?"  said  the  man  who  stood  with- 
out. He  seemed  to  be  recalling  her,  almost  to  be  identi- 
fying her.  "You've  not  forgotten  me,  Rosy ?  "  he  added. 
There  was  a  note  of  mockery  in  his  voice,  a  suggestion 
of  simulated  dry  indifference.  Yet  the  spirit  of  the 
mountain,  if  it  were  hovering  near,  must  have  perceived, 
with  its  unhurried  inspection  of  the  human  heart,  that 
there  was  a  deeply  hidden  note  of  appeal,  too,  when 
the  stiffly  erect,  defiant  figure  outside  the  door  said: 
"You've  not  forgotten  me,  Rosy?" 

She  stepped  back  a  little,  opening  the  door  wider. 
"Come  in,"  she  said.  She  spoke  almost  imperatively, 
her  tone  implying  that  it  was  not  seemly  for  any  one 
to  stand  in  the  rain,  just  outside  a  door.  And  when  he 
entered,  glancing  with  silent  apology  at  his  dripping 
garments,  she  closed  the  door  wonderingly  and  then 
stood  apart  from  him,  her  hands  clasped  before  her. 
She  regarded  him  a  moment,  searching  the  soul  as  well 
as  the  body — perhaps  particularly  the  soul.  Her  eyes 
darkened  with  a  shadow  of  doubt,  and  then  she  said — 
or  whispered — tensely:  "Zeb? — Zeb  Nanny?" 

13 


14  ROSY 

He  did  not  seem  to  consider  it  needful  to  reply  to  her 
question.  He  stood  erect,  his  face  held  high — as  if  he 
had  never  been  more  presentable — looking  at  her  with 
an  odd,  steadfast  smile  of  kindly  mockery.  Presently 
he 'added:  "You're  not  afraid  of  me?" 

"No,  I'm  not  afraid,"  she  said.  She  seemed  to  be 
trying  to  suppress  her  emotions,  whatever  they  were. 
She  turned  toward  a  small  table  at  one  side  of  the 
room  and  placed  upon  it  a  garment  in  which  a  threaded 
needle  had  been  thrust,  as  if  she  had  been  engaged  in 
mending  the  garment  when  the  interruption  occurred; 
and  the  intruder,  who  knew  that  she  had  been  quite 
idle  before  his  arrival,  concluded  that  the  slightly  os- 
tentatious placing  of  the  garment  and  the  needle  and 
thread  on  the  table  was  only  a  bit  of  feminine  camouflage, 
and  he  continued  to  smile  with  quiet  mockery,  while  his 
eyes  rested  an  instant  on  the  garment,  and  then  sought 
the  girl's. 

Something  in  her  gaze — an  expression  of  aloofness,  of 
remoteness,  of  wondering  appraisal — sobered  him.  He 
said,  as  if  in  answer  to  the  expression  in  her  eyes:  "I'm 
going  back  to  Little  Rock  to-morrow."  And  after  a 
brief  interval  he  added,  regarding  her  relentlessly:  "To 
finish  out  my  term  in  prison." 

His  blunt  speech  embarrassed  her;  she  held  her  eyes 
on  his  with  difficulty.  "I've  heard  of  your  coming," 
she  said  falteringly,  "and  of  the  strange  way.  ...  I 
didn't  know  they  ever  let  the  con — the  prisoners  go 
away  by  themselves,  and  trust  them  to  come  back." 

He  considered  this,  moving  his  head  aside  a  little. 
Slowly  there  came  an  expression  of  contempt  in  the 
lines  on  his  face,  in  the  gleam  in  his  eyes.  "It's  some 
new  nonsense,"  he  explained.  "I  believe  they  call  it 
the  honor  system — as  if  there  had  been  any  honor  in 
the  way  they  treated  me  from  the  beginning."  He 


ROSY  15 

restrained  an  impulse  to  complain  and  condemn.  He 
went  on  more  quietly:  "It's  being  done  in  other  States. 
I  believe  it's  a  new  thing  here  in  Arkansas." 

He  had  scarcely  moved  since  he  came  into  the  room. 
There  was  a  rare  composure — both  mental  and  phys- 
ical— about  him  which  enabled  him  to  stand  upright, 
without  any  need  of  seeking  out  objects  to  touch,  or  of 
speaking  for  the  mere  relief  of  speaking.  He  seemed 
now  to  be  waiting,  without  any  uneasiness  at  all,  to 
note  what  Rosy  would  do  or  say  next. 

She  had  difficulty  in  framing  her  next  sentence.  Her 
eyes  were  already  asking  a  question  with  kindly  warmth 
and  pity  while  she  sought  out  the  words  which  eluded 
her,  and  presently  she  said  impulsively:  "And  you  did 
get  home  in  time,  didn't  you?" 

A  wave  of  emotion  swept  over  his  face  and  was  gone. 
"In  time  .  .  .  yes,  I  got  home  before  mother  died." 
He  uttered  the  words  dryly,  as  if  his  real  answer  had 
been  kept  in  reserve.  He  had  indeed  come  home  in 
time  to  see  his  mother  die,  but  he  had  not  been  per- 
mitted to  come  in  time  to  enable  her  to  live. 

He  seemed  ready  to  put  the  subject  aside.  He  glanced 
about  the  room  with  a  sort  of  sad,  affectionate  regard, 
and  presently  his  eyes  travelled  to  the  ladder,  and  a 
gleam  of  evil  humor  burned  in  them  as  he  followed  the 
course  of  the  ladder,  up  to  the  square  opening  in  the 
attic  floor.  He  was  listening  intently,  but  the  whole 
house  was  so  silent  that  the  slow  drip  of  water  from  his 
garments  to  the  floor  could  be  heard. 

It  was  plain  that  she  would  not  permit  him  to  explore 
the  attic,  even  in  fancy.  She  assumed  a  brisk  air. 
"You're  all  wet,"  she  said.  "Won't  you  take  your  coat 
off?  I  could  start  a  little  fire.  You  could  dry  it.  Or 
you  might  put  on  father's  coat.  ..." 

She  turned  toward  a  coat  that  hung  on  the  wall,  and 


16  ROSY 

in  that  moment  her  attitude,  her  whole  being,  became 
almost  piteously  childish.  She  lifted  her  finger-tips  to 
her  cheeks  and  gazed  at  that  coat  on  the  wall.  She 
seemed  to  diminish  in  stature;  sorrow  enveloped  her  like 
a  sombre  veil. 

" Where  is  your  father?"  he  asked,  a  note  of  in- 
credulity in  his  voice,  as  if  her  attitude  had  answered 
his  question  before  it  had  been  expressed. 

"He  is  dead,"  she  replied. 

He  met  that  revelation  with  the  silence  of  one  who  is 
Stricken  dumb.  He  glanced  at  her  furtively,  but  she 
was  still  gazing  at  her  father's  coat.  But  for  once  he 
could  not  bear  to  remain  silent  long.  "I  hadn't  heard," 
he  said  presently.  "You  know  we  never  hear  anything 
.  .  .  inside  the  walls.  At  least,  I  never  do.  I'm  sorry, 
Rosy — you  know  I  am !  And — your  mother?" 

"She  is  dead,  too." 

He  exclaimed  incredulously:  "No!"  And  then  he 
gazed  at  her  in  silence.  An  expression  of  dread  was  in 
his  eyes,  as  if  he  were  applying  this  chronicle  of  tragedy 
to  himself  and  realizing  for  the  first  time  that  the 
world  may  change  completely  for  the  man  who  is 
away,  during  the  years  of  his  absence.  The  Wood- 
ridges  both  dead  and  gone ! — and  he  had  seen  them  go- 
ing monotonously  about  their  daily  tasks  less  than  two 
years  ago. 

Some  habitual  quality  of  reserve  or  stoicism  reas- 
serted itself  in  him  and  he  made  no  comment  upon  the 
fact  that  her  mother  and  father  were  dead.  With 
sudden  decision  he  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it  and 
looked  out.  His  interests  were  no  longer  within,  seem- 
ingly. His  attitude  expressed  the  question:  Would  the 
rain  pass  presently,  and  the  skies  clear,  or  were  con- 
ditions to  remain  unchanged  all  night? 

He  perceived  with  relief  that  the  prospect  was  im- 


ROSY  17 

proved.  The  clouds  had  lifted  and  were  even  broken 
here  and  there.  It  was  no  longer  raining.  The  dark- 
ness was  less  intense.  He  could  see  a  blurred  object 
out  where  he  had  tethered  his  horse.  Even  the  road 
was  emerging  faintly  from  the  obscurity;  he  could  see 
bits  of  it  here  and  there  as  it  passed  the  hut.  He  could 
trace  the  line  of  tree-tops  against  the  sky.  Somewhere 
far  away  the  frogs  had  set  up  their  chorus,  like  a  chant 
by  downhearted  people  whose  sad  condition  has  been 
a  little  ameliorated. 

He  knew  that  he  need  not  return  to  Pisgah  afoot.  A 
little  later  he  should  be  able  to  mount  his  horse  and 
ride  down  the  mountain.  And  there  was  no  immediate 
need  of  haste. 

He  crossed  the  door-sill  and  she  heard  him  murmur 
something  about  his  hat;  but  when  he  re-entered  the  door 
a  few  minutes  later  he  was  still  hatless.  "It  must  have 
blown  away,"  he  explained,  "but  it  doesn't  matter." 

He  closed  the  door  and  turned  to  the  girl,  who  stood 
regarding  him  inquiringly. 

"Maybe  I  had  better  try  to  dry  out  a  little,"  he  said. 
He  wriggled  out  of  his  clinging  coat  and  dropped  it  over 
a  chair-back.  "Let  me,"  he  interposed,  when  she  would 
have  knelt  down  to  start  a  blaze  in  the  fireplace.  The 
month  was  July  and  a  summer  heat  pervaded  the  hut, 
but  there  was  wood  on  the  hearth.  The  mornings  were 
always  cool  on  the  mountain,  and  a  little  fire,  to  take 
the  chill  from  the  air  on  arising,  was  thought  to  be  a 
safeguard  against  malaria. 

He  set  about  making  a  fire,  but  she  helped  him.  She 
was  on  her  knees  beside  him,  handing  him  kindling,  and 
then  a  match.  And  always  she  was  regarding  him  a 
little  furtively,  and  with  an  expression  in  her  eyes  which 
never  could  have  been  mistaken  for  disapproval  or 
antipathy. 


i8  ROSY^ 

Once  he  surprised  that  expression  in  her  eyes,  and 
for  a  moment  he  appeared  to  lose  interest  in  the  task 
he  had  begun.  He  sat  back  on  his  heels  and  allowed 
his  hands  to  rest  idly  against  his  thighs.  It  was  as 
if  he  had  not  really  seen  her  before;  and  his  eyes  bright- 
ened with  pleasure  as  they  travelled  on  little  journeys 
of  exploration  from  her  burnished  auburn  hair  to  her 
warm  hazel  eyes  with  a  hint  of  wine  color  in  them,  and 
her  cheeks  like  the  skin  of  certain  peaches  he  had 
gathered  from  a  tree  at  home,  save  that  they  were 
deliciously  freckled,  and  the  harbored  white  of  her 
throat.  She  was  a  wonderful  creature,  he  thought;  and 
just  now  she  was  childlike  and  demure,  perhaps  because 
he  had  become  all  but  a  stranger  to  her.  They  had  not 
seen  each  other  for  nearly  two  years. 

He  tried  to  remember  how  old  she  had  been  when 
he  saw  her  last.  Wasn't  it  only  fifteen?  Yet  surely 
she  must  have  been  more  than  that !  She  would  have 
been  taken  for  twenty,  or  even  more  than  that  now. 
She  was  too  fully  developed  for  a  young  girl.  There 
was  a  kind  of  voluptuousness  about  her;  her  arms  and 
throat  were  full  and  round,  and  she  had  an  opulent 
fulness  of  bosom.  But  he  knew  the  true  story  of  her 
years  was  best  found  in  her  face;  and  her  face  by  turns 
revealed  the  high  spirits  of  the  untried  who  have  never 
learned  to  be  afraid,  and  the  piquant  mischief  of  young 
girls,  which  suggests  kinship  to  kittens  and  other  gen- 
tle yet  feline  animals. 

He  thought  particularly  of  a  kitten  when  she  turned 
to  him  suddenly,  as  if  he  were  behaving  rather  provok- 
ingly  in  not  going  ahead  with  the  task  of  building  the 
fire,  and  put  forth  a  dimpled  hand,  with  a  paw-like 
gesture,  and  raked  the  kindling  toward  her. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  she  demanded  with  a 
smile.  "I  don't  believe  you  know  how  to  build  a  fire ! " 


ROSY  19 

He  thought,  "Was  there  ever  another  smile  like  that?" 
and  he  seemed  not  to  know  that  she  had  put  forth  her 
hand  for  the  matches  she  had  given  him. 

"You  do  it  this  way,"  she  said;  and  she  lighted  the 
kindling  and  then  watched  almost  breathlessly  for  the 
flame  to  mount  and  catch  the  larger  pieces  of  wood. 
She  seemed  a  little  like  a  pagan  for  the  moment — a 
pagan  lighting  a  sacrificial  fire. 

The  purr  of  the  burning  kindling  rose  to  a  riot  of 
snapping  sounds;  the  flames  began  to  leap  and  spread. 
A  stronger  light  filled  the  room.  Shadows  wavered  in 
the  corners  and  on  the  walls. 

The  man  and  the  girl  drew  back,  still  without  with- 
drawing their  minds  from  the  fire  for  a  little  while, 
seemingly;  and  then  the  man  arose  and  placed  a  chair 
and  hung  his  coat  before  the  blaze.  This  done,  he 
stood  looking  down  upon  her  intently. 

Long-gone  days  with  their  rosy  hues  came  back  to 
him,  driving  from  his  mind  the  present,  with  its  lowering 
clouds  and  darkness.  They  had  been  sweethearts 
once  upon  a  time — he  and  the  girl  who  remained  kneel- 
ing on  the  hearth. 

It  was  she  who  had  made  the  choice.  She  had  chosen 
him,  and  enticed  him  forth  on  her  mountain  expeditions 
in  search  of  chincapins  and  wild  grapes  and  the  secrets 
of  hidden  coves  and  dark  caves.  They  had  gone  to- 
gether, often  silent  for  hours,  spying  upon  the  lives  of 
wild  creatures.  She  had  given  him  to  understand  that 
she  expected  him  to  lead  the  way;  and  then  she  had 
followed,  silently  eager,  hoping  for  wilder  and  yet  wilder 
scenes.  He  had  been  almost  a  man  while  she  was  still 
a  little  girl,  but  a  man  different  from  other  men,  with 
a  child's  eager  love  of  natural  things,  and  a  curious  in- 
difference to  the  crude  forms  of  social  life  which  ap- 
pealed to  others  of  his  own  sex  and  age. 


20  ROSY 

They  had  been  sweethearts  together — but  with  never 
a  word  of  love  or  even  friendship  or  loyalty. 

The  time  came  when  she  was  thought  to  be  too  old 
for  this  wild  manner  of  life,  and  then  they  had  seen  less 
and  less  of  each  other.  And  finally  came  the  trouble 
which  resulted  in  his  going  to  prison  and  losing  her  for- 
ever. 

He  had  not  thought  of  going  near  her  when  he  came 
back  to  Pisgah  to  be  with  his  mother  when  she  died. 
She  would  be  a  grown  young  lady  now,  he  reflected, 
and  she  would  be  through  with  him.  All  women  would 
be  through  with  him.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
renounce  all  the  joys  which  other  men  might  seek. 
He  had  been  ruined — and  what  sort  of  woman  would 
marry  a  man  who  was  branded  ? 

.  .  .  Now  he  stood  looking  down  at  her  intently.  It 
did  not  occur  to  him  that  anything  could  be  undone, 
anything  changed.  Yet  he  was  aware  of  a  strange 
warmth  stirring  in  his  heart,  an  unwonted  interest  in 
life  awakening  in  his  brain. 

He  moved  the  chair  a  little  noisily  so  that  she  would 
look  up.  "It's  going  all  right,"  he  said.  "Come  and 
sit  down,  won't  you  ?  And  if  you  don't  mind,  you  might 
tell  me  about — about  all  that's  happened." 

She  was  shading  her  face  with  her  hand  as  she  turned 
and  looked  up  at  him.  "About  what?"  she  asked. 

He  stumbled  in  his  speech  a  little.  "You  know,"  he 
said;  "your  father  and  mother  .  .  .  they  were  both 
here  the  last  time  I  came  up  the  mountain." 

She  seemed  quite  as  comfortable  sitting  back  on 
her  heels  as  she  would  have  been  on  a  chair.  She 
seemed  to  settle  a  little,  and  she  continued  to  shade  her 
face  with  her  hand  as  she  told  the  story  of  her  mother 
and  father. 

"It  was  in  January,"  she  began.    "She  had  been  ail- 


ROSY  21 

ing;  with  a  cold,  or  something.  She  had  been  coughing 
all  winter.  And  one  day  he  went  out  to  bring  in  wood. 
He  did  not  come  back  all  day.  When  it  came  night 
she  went  along  the  bench,  telling  people  that  he  had 
not  come  home.  She  asked  them  to  look  for  him.  But 
they  couldn't  believe  at  first  that  anything  was  wrong. 
You  know  how  people  are.  And  she  looked  for  him 
alone.  She  went  all  the  way  around  the  bench  road, 
and  when  she  came  home  she  was  worn  out.  She  was 
crying.  I  can  hear  her  crying  now,  and  coughing.  And 
then  she  went  out  again  and  was  gone  a  long  time.  She 
said  nothing  when  she  came  back,  and  later  she  went 
out  again.  But  she  could  not  find  him.  I  helped  her, 
but  it  didn't  seem  any  use.  We  couldn't  think  where 
he  was.  It  was  very  cold — a  stormy  night.  I  made  her 
lie  down  then,  and  covered  her  up,  and  she  lay  moaning. 
It  was  midnight  when  she  came  in  the  last  time,  and  she 
became  very  ill.  Toward  morning  her  mind  was  wan- 
dering. You  know?  She  didn't  even  know  me.  She 
lay  for  two  days  without  knowing  any  one.  When  I 
told  her  that  everybody  was  out  looking — they  had 
come  to  believe  something  had  happened  to  him  by  this 
time — I  couldn't  make  her  understand.  She  died  two 
days  later.  But  at  the  end  .  .  .  she  lay  talking  to  him 
softly,  scolding  him — as  if  she  were  petting  him  at  the 
same  time.  It  was  as  if  she  had  found  him.  Really,  it 
seemed  so.  And  so  she  died.  And  the  next  day  they 
found  him.  He  had  fallen  over  a  ledge.  It  had  rained 
and  then  frozen.  It  was  slippery.  And  he  was  dead." 

The  hand  which  had  been  shading  her  face  closed  in 
against  her  eyes  and  there  was  silence.  Presently  she 
went  on  speaking  without  taking  her  hand  from  her 
eyes.  "The  only  comfort  I  could  find  was  that  neither 
of  them  knew." 

She  turned  toward  him,  one  hand  resting  on  the  rough 


22  ROSY 

stone  fireplace  in  support  of  her  body.  "You  know 
those  things  the  preachers  talk  about  on  Sunday?"  she 
asked.  "About  a  life  hereafter?" 

He  turned  his  eyes  away  from  her.  "I  know  about 
them,"  he  said. 

"Of  course  nobody  knows,"  she  continued.  "But  I 
can't  help  thinking  of  them  sometimes,  of  mother  and 
father.  And  I've  thought  how  wonderful  it  would  be 
if  they  had  met — in  another  world,  I  mean;  both  well 
and  strong  and  standing  straight?  You  can  imagine 
each  saying  to  the  other:  'What — you  are  here?  I 
thought  I  should  have  to  wait  a  while ! '  I  wonder  .  .  . 
if  the  people  who  started  that  story  knew  any  more 
than  you  or  I." 

The  words  and  tone  affected  him  greatly;  and  though 
he  did  not  move,  his  mind  and  heart  seemed  to  rush 
toward  her,  to  envelop  her,  to  claim  her.  But  his  habit- 
ual reserve  asserted  itself.  He  could  not  speak  for  a 
time,  and  at  length  he  only  said:  "You're  a  strange 
girl,  Rosy."  He  was  leaning  forward,  his  hands  on  his 
knees,  and  his  eyes  were  at  once  soft  and  keen.  For 
the  moment  he  had  forgotten  that  she  was  concealing 
Nat  Minturn — who,  surely,  had  become  her  lover? — 
in  the  attic.  He  had  forgotten  to  wonder  why  she  had 
done  so.  He  was  thinking  only  that  Rosy's  parents 
must  have  been  truly  in  love  with  each  other — that 
they  must  have  walked  close  together — to  have  be- 
gotten such  a  daughter,  glorious  in  mind  and  body. 

Perhaps  she  realized  that  he  was  not  far  from  a 
sentimental  mood.  She  sprang  to  her  feet  alertly,  with 
surprising  lightness.  She  busied  herself  with  his  coat, 
turning  it  and  readjusting  it. 

As  if  prompted  by  something  of  trepidation  in  her 
manner,  he  said  slowly:  "I  didn't  think  to  tell  you  how 
I  happened  to  be  here,  Rosy.  I  was  riding  up  the 


ROSY  23 

mountain — just  for  old  times'  sake.  And  it  got  so  dark 
I  didn't  know  where  I  was.  I  gave  the  horse  his  head 
and  he  brought  me  here — by  chance,  you  might  say." 
He  would  not  say  that  he  shouldn't  voluntarily  have 
come  to  see  her;  that  would  have  sounded  ungracious, 
gratuitous.  But  he  was  not  willing  to  have  her  believe 
that  he  had  done  so. 

Her  only  reply  to  what  he  had  said  was  to  move  his 
coat  a  little  farther  from  the  fire;  and  after  an  interval 
of  silence  he  said:  "And  so  you  went  on  living  here  all 
by  yourself?" 

She  nodded.  "I  couldn't  think  of  going  away.  The 
Springers  offered  to  take  me  to  live  with  them.  They're 
getting  old,  you  know.  Mrs.  Springer  really  ought  to 
have  some  one  to  help  her  about  the  house.  They  were 
as  kind  as  could  be.  But  I  don't  know — you  know 
they're  Germans.  .  .  ."  She  was  going  to  add  that 
she  had  not  felt  that  she  could  feel  at  home  among  Ger- 
mans; and  then  she  remembered  Jacob  Feld  and  his 
family,  with  whom  she  had  always  felt  very  much  at 
home,  indeed,  and  she  knew  that  her  disinclination  to 
go  to  live  with  the  Springers  was  not  really  because 
they  were  Germans,  but  because  she  did  not  wish  to 
leave  the  house  where  her  mother  and  father  had  lived. 
"I  haven't  minded  much  being  alone,"  she  added. 

For  the  first  time  he  paid  close  heed  to  the  various 
aspects  of  the  room.  It  was  on  the  whole  a  gentler 
interior  than  one  would  have  expected  to  find  on  the 
mountain.  To  be  sure,  there  was  the  shotgun  on  its 
wooden  pegs  on  the  wall  to  give  the  place  a  somewhat 
wild  appearance.  But  there  was  a  picture  or  two,  and 
certain  homely  decorations :  wall-pockets  made  in  better 
taste  than  common,  and  odd  decorations  made  of  pine- 
cones  gathered  on  the  near-by  slopes.  The  bed,  too, 
was  quite  immaculate. 


24  ROSY 

"But  how  do  you  get  along  all  by  yourself,  Rosy?" 
he  ventured  at  length  to  ask. 

"It's  been  easy  enough,"  she  declared.  "There  are 
the  chickens,  you  know — we've  always  had  quite  a  lot 
of  them.  And  there  are  a  good  many  grapes  and  ap- 
ples on  the  slope — and  peaches.  They've  done  mighty 
well  this  season.  And  the  garden;  father  had  made  the 
garden  larger  just  last  year." 

"And  you  look  after  everything  yourself?" 

"Of  course!  It  isn't  so  much."  As  if  she  had  not 
yet  fully  explained  how  she  got  along,  she  added:  "The 
hotel  people  on  the  summit  buy  eggs  and  chickens  dur- 
ing the  summer,  when  there  are  a  lot  of  guests  up  there; 
and  the  guests  come  down  often  and  buy  fruit.  They 
mostly  want  to  pay  more  than  you'll  let  them.  You 
know  it's  their  time  to  spend  money  and  be  free-handed 
— vacation  time." 

"Yes,  in  the  summer.  But  what'll  you  do  in  the 
winter?" 

"It  will  be  different,"  she  admitted.  "But  I'll  need 
very  little,  and  I  can  always  save  in  the  summer.  But 
there'll  be  the  chickens  and  eggs,  even  in  the  winter. 
I'll  send  them  to  Pisgah.  There's  always  a  chance 
every  week  or  so;  somebody  going  down  with  a  wagon. 
You  know  the  Felds  spend  the  winter  here,  just  as  I 
do.  I  can  always  count  on  Mr.  Feld  to  help." 

She  turned  her  attention  to  his  coat  again,  as  if  at 
last  she  had  thought  of  the  man  hidden  in  the  attic;  as 
if  she  were  becoming  impatient  for  her  visitor  to  be 
gone. 

He  did  not  wish  to  embarrass  her.  He  went  to  the 
door  again  and  looked  out.  The  clouds  were  still  too 
dense  to  permit  more  than  the  faintest  light  to  pene- 
trate them.  It  would  not  be  safe  to  begin  that  journey 
down  the  mountain  now.  The  horse  whinnied  to  him, 


ROSY  25 

but  he  closed  the  door  and  returned  to  the  fire,  standing 
with  his  back  to  it.  His  clothes  began  to  steam  a 
little. 

"I'll  go  pretty  soon,"  he  said,  as  if  she  had  sug- 
gested that  he  ought  not  to  remain. 

She  surprised  him  by  saying  firmly:  "Not  yet.  Your 
coat  isn't  dry." 

He  turned  toward  her,  moved  anew  by  her  kindness, 
her  solicitude.  He  realized  that  when  he  left  the  hut 
presently  he  should  carry  away  with  him  a  new  plea- 
sure— that  life  would  have  a  new  value  for  him.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  had  never  really  seen  Rosy  be- 
fore; and  now  he  knew  that  he  should  always  be  able 
to  see  her,  no  matter  where  he  went.  He  felt  long- 
repressed  emotions  stir  within  him.  For  the  moment 
he  lost  the  firm  hold  upon  himself  he  had  maintained; 
and  during  that  moment  he  took  a  step  toward  her 
and  put  his  hand  on  her  arm.  He  looked  significantly 
up  to  where  the  ladder  ended  into  the  opening  to  the 
attic. 

"Rosy!"  he  whispered,  his  voice  charged  with  emo- 
tion. "What  made  Nat  hide  when  he  heard  me  com- 
ing?" 

And  he  was  scarcely  surprised  when  she  started 
away  from  him,  her  cheeks  suddenly  pale  and  her 
eyes  filled  with  dismay. 


CHAPTER  III 

HE  would  have  recalled  that  question  instantly  if  he 
could  have  done  so.  He  had  blundered.  He  should 
not  have  let  her  know  that  her  secret  had  been  re- 
vealed to  him.  He  thought  that  perhaps  the  right  kind 
of  man  would  not  even  have  glanced  toward  the  ladder. 

But  it  was  too  late  to  undo  the  harm  he  had  done. 
He  realized  this  when  she  drew  back  from  him  in  that 
startled  manner  and  searched  his  eyes.  And  then  it 
came  to  him  slowly  and  with  a  kind  of  sullen  painful- 
ness  that  it  was  not  merely  an  innocent  secret  that 
Rosy  had  sought  to  keep,  but  that  it  was  something 
shameful  which  she  had  meant  to  hide. 

He  did  not  know  that  he  was  staring  at  her  accusingly. 
The  old  bonds  which  had  never  been  confessed  seemed 
to  have  been  re-established.  He  felt  a  sense  of  injury, 
a  fleeting  right  to  control. 

He  said  in  a  low  voice  with  a  certain  hardness  in  it: 
"I  saw  him  through  the  window.  I  was  not  spying. 
It  was  an  accident." 

"Oh !"  she  murmured.  She  seemed  a  little  bewildered 
— to  be  trying  to  regain  her  composure.  And  her  heart 
was  paining  her  because  of  that  expression  of  mistrust 
in  his  eyes — of  accusation.  She  moved  farther  away 
from  him,  as  if  she  were  trying  to  decide  what  to  do. 
Then,  with  sudden  decision,  she  went  to  the  foot  of  the 
ladder  and  looked  up  toward  the  attic.  She  called  out  a 
little  dubiously:  "You'd  better  come  down,  Nat.  He 
knows  you're  here." 

There  was  an  interval  of  silence  and  then  the  creak- 
ing of  timbers  overhead.  The  ladder  vibrated,  and  a 

26 


ROSY  27 

man's  feet  and  body  and  face  appeared.  A  young 
man  it  was;  of  a  somewhat  delicate  build,  and  of  fas- 
tidious dress.  Just  now  his  eyes  were  blinking,  and  he 
paused  on  the  ladder — perhaps  because  he  could  not 
see  very  well  just  at  first,  or  possibly  because  of  a  cer- 
tain hesitancy  he  felt  in  greeting  the  man  who  stood 
looking  up  at  him.  After  a  brief  pause  he  asked,  with 
an  effort  to  speak  lightly  yet  a  little  sharply:  "What 
are  you  doing  here,  Nanny  ?  " 

Nanny  had  not  ceased  to  regard  him  steadily,  sternly; 
and  now  he  took  a  step  forward,  his  hand  extended.  It 
occurred  to  him  that  Minturn  would  not  be  able  to 
shake  his  hand  if  he  had  come  to  the  hut  with  an  evil 
purpose  in  his  mind. 

But  Minturn  did  shake  his  hand;  limply,  as  was  his 
way,  and  with  a  faint  smile  in  which  there  was  some- 
thing of  condescension.  "You  took  us  a  little  by  sur- 
prise," he  said  amiably,  glancing  at  Rosy  as  if  for  con- 
firmation. "I  was  paying  Rosy  a  secret  visit  and  you 
caught  me — that's  all."  He  turned  to  Rosy  again. 
"We  didn't  want  any  one  to  know  I  was  here — did 
we,  Rosy?"  he  added. 

And  Nanny  believed  that  he  understood  quite  clearly. 
Minturn  and  Rosy  were  in  love — what  more  natural? 
And  they  had  to  make  a  secret  of  it.  Nat  was  not  a 
bad  fellow,  after  all;  but  his  people  .  .  .  really,  there 
was  nothing  you  could  say  in  favor  of  his  people,  ex- 
cept that  they  were  rich — richer  by  far  than  any  of 
their  neighbors,  far  or  near.  And  their  wealth  had  made 
them  arrogant  and  ambitious  in  a  way.  They  would 
never  have  consented  to  a  marriage  between  Nat  and 
Rosy — between  Nat  and  any  poor  girl.  According  to 
any  sensible  person's  way  of  thinking,  Rosy  was  a 
treasure  above  riches,  above  price;  but  the  Minturns 
weren't  sensible  persons.  They  weren't  the  kind  to 


28  ROSY 

recognize  Rosy's  worth.  They  would  think  of  her 
only  as  a  mountain  girl  who  had  to  work  hard  and  who 
had  very  little.  Her  beauty  and  goodness  would  not 
count  with  them. 

It  was  so  that  Nanny  interpreted  the  situation,  and 
he  was  inclined  to  think  better  of  Nat,  who  had  ignored 
his  parents'  standards  and  who  had  dared  to  go  courting 
a  girl  because  he  admired  her  and  not  because  she  was 
the  girl  his  family  would  have  chosen  for  him. 

He  nodded  slowly.  "I  guess  I  understand,"  he  said. 
"And  I'll  not  say  anything  about  my  finding  you  here. 
I  gather  that's  what  you're  getting  at,  Nat?" 

"On  Rosy's  account  as  much  as  my  own,"  amended 
Minturn. 

"I'll  say  nothing,"  said  Nanny  shortly.  After  all, 
he  didn't  quite  like  the  situation. 

But  a  flush  of  gratitude  and  admiration  warmed 
Minturn's  cheeks.  "You're  a  good  fellow,  Zeb,"  he 
said  impulsively.  "I — I've  always  said  so.  Even 
when  you  got  into  trouble.  I  did,  honestly.  I  believe 
even  yet  that  there  was  some  mystery  about  it — that 
if  you  wanted  to  explain  your  side  ..." 

But  here  he  had  come  upon  Nanny's  chief  limita- 
tion— a  fierce  dislike  of  any  man's  expressed  praise 
or  approbation  or  sympathy.  He  turned  away  ungra- 
ciously. He  went  to  the  door  again  and  looked  at  the 
sky.  He  was  out  of  place,  here  in  Rosy's  hut.  They 
would  want  to  be  alone,  Rosy  and  Nat.  Rosy  would 
want  a  chance  to  assure  Nat  that  she  would  wait  for 
him,  even  if  they  had  to  wait  until  his  father  died.  Or 
if  they  had  both  talked  it  all  over  to  the  last  word — as 
they  seemed  to  have  done  when  he  stumbled  against 
the  window — then  they  would  want  to  bear  their  un- 
happiness  alone,  in  silence. 

But  as  he  stood,  looking  out,  the  sky  seemed  to  be 


ROSY  29 

closing  In  upon  him  like  a  bat's  wings.  The  darkness 
was  deepening  again.  No,  he  could  not  go  just  yet. 

He  did  not  know  that  the  other  two  occupants  of 
the  room  were  regarding  him  intently — one  of  them,  at 
least,  with  deepening  approval.  If  Minturn's  expression 
was  inscrutable,  Rosy  was  undoubtedly  seeing  him 
anew,  now  that  there  was  another  man  present  with 
whom  to  contrast  him.  The  old  unfathomed  fascina- 
tion he  had  always  had  for  her  came  back  to  her  now 
with  renewed  force. 

The  girl  in  Rosy  was  still  very  much  alive;  she  could 
contemplate  the  playthings  of  life  with  ecstasy  and  at 
times  with  perfect  contentment.  Perhaps  she  would 
always  be  able  to  do  so.  But  something  deeper  was 
awakening  in  her  nature,  too,  so  that  she  could  con- 
template, shyly  and  with  a  certain  ache  of  desire,  a 
man  who  was  done  with  the  playtime  of  life  and  who 
knew  how  to  be  serious  and  silent — a  rock  one  might 
find  shelter  behind  in  time  of  storm. 

Nanny  belonged  to  this  type  of  men.  Indeed,  she 
could  not  remember  that  he  had  ever  seemed  gay  and 
irresponsible,  a  stripling.  He  was  a  full-bodied  man, 
hard  and  powerful;  and  if  he  often  moved  with  the 
lithe  freedom  of  an  Indian,  there  was  in  his  eyes  the 
reflective  quietude  which  had  come  to  him  with  his 
thirty-two  years  of  stressful  labor  and  hardship. 

Rosy  pictured  other  aspects  of  him  than  those  which 
were  presented  to  her  just  now.  She  could  hear  his 
deep,  serious  voice;  she  recalled  his  way  of  seeming  to 
look  down  upon  things  rather  than  up  at  them.  She 
sighed  unconsciously.  It  had  been  a  wonderful  half- 
hour  they  had  had  together,  before  Nat  had  been 
summoned  to  join  them.  She  stole  a  glance  at  Min- 
turn  and  took  in  his  rather  delicate  build,  his  softness. 
There  was  a  kind  of  preciseness  about  him,  something 


30  ROSY 

finished  and  definite,  as  if  he  had  already  made  up  his 
mind  just  what  he  should  do  under  any  circumstances 
which  might  arise — as  if  he  had  fixed  rules  to  go  by. 
She  thought  a  man  might  grow  up  like  Minturn  if  he 
spent  his  energies  looking  into  books,  and  at  deeds  to 
property,  perhaps;  while  Nanny  was  more  like  a  man 
who  sought  his  stories  in  the  stars  and  read  his  titles 
in  the  clouds  and  skies.  She  tried  to  think  how  long 
it  would  be  before  his  prison  term  ended.  For  the 
moment  she  was  not  thinking  of  Minturn  at  all. 

Nanny  closed  the  door  and  turned  back  into  the 
room.  He  stood  looking  down  on  Minturn.  And  pres- 
ently he  said — going  back  to  Min turn's  last  words: 
"There's  no  mystery  about  it — about  their  making  a 
convict  out  of  me.  I  was  sent  down  to  Little  Rock  for 
defending  my  rights." 

"Yes,"  returned  Minturn  uncomfortably;  "of  course; 
but  .  .  .  you  know  they  said  you  had  stolen  a  horse." 
He  sought  Rosy's  eyes  as  if  for  support — as  if  he  had 
not  the  courage  to  face  Nanny  at  that  moment. 

Nanny  took  his  position  before  the  fire  again,  facing 
them;  and  both  Rosy  and  Minturn  drew  a  little  apart 
from  him  and  sat  down  as  if  they  were  an  audience,  pre- 
pared to  listen  to  his  story.  They  were  not  embarrassed 
by  the  prospect  of  listening  to  his  self-revelation.  Rosy 
was  saved  from  this  by  the  quickened  sympathy  she 
felt  for  him;  and  as  for  Minturn,  his  attitude  was  that 
of  a  more  or  less  unconscious  superiority.  The  Nannys 
• — father  and  son — had  always  been  rather  obscure 
persons.  Although  they  owned  their  farm,  it  was  a 
small  one,  lying  among  the  foot-hills  where  land  was 
held  cheaply,  and  they  had  always  been  unpretentious, 
even  humble,  men,  who  loved  their  work  and  were  con- 
tent not  to  mingle  prominently  in  the  affairs  of  the  com- 
munity. 


ROSY  31 

"I  didn't  steal  the  horse,"  said  Nanny.  "I  took  it. 
It  was  the  only  way  I  had  of  getting  even  with  old 
Lott.  It  was  the  only  thing  he  really  cared  for.  I 
took  it,  not  because  I  wanted  it,  but  because  I  had  made 
up  my  mind  to  injure  Lott,  as  he  had  injured  me." 

He  turned  and  kicked  the  ends  of  wood  in  the  fire- 
place into  a  heap,  so  that  they  began  to  burn  again. 

"You  ought  to  know  how  they  robbed  my  father 
and  me  of  our  land — old  Lott  and  his  friends.  He  had 
bought  a  bit  of  a  farm  near  ours — fifty  acres  or  so  of 
worn-out  land.  It  wasn't  worth  a  cent  except  for  a  few 
fine  old  pine-trees  on  it  that  he  could  build  his  house 
under.  It  wouldn't  have  raised  five  bales  of  cotton  to 
the  whole  fifty  acres.  He  wanted  to  buy  a  strip  of 
land  from  my  father  to  add  to  his.  You  know  my 
father  had  fed  our  land  and  nursed  it  until  it  was  good 
for  something.  And  when  he  wouldn't  sell  .  .  .  that's 
when  Lott  began  his  dirty  work.  He  went  to  the  county 
officials.  He  was  always  pretty  thick  with  them — with 
that  class  of  men.  He  was  always  stump-speaking  and 
organizing  rallies  and  nosing  in  everywhere.  And  he 
got  them  to  order  a  new  survey.  That's  what  they 
called  it.  And  they  gave  him  a  strip  of  our  land.  I 
reckon  he  paid  them  for  it. 

"I  didn't  take  it  to  heart  so  much  at  first.  That  is, 
I  didn't  take  it  hard,  the  way  my  father  did." 

There  was  brooding  in  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  and 
then  he  continued  in  a  voice  which  he  sought  to  re- 
strain: "I  never  knew  a  man  to  care  for  land  the  way 
my  father  does.  I  don't  mean  that  he's  ambitious  to 
own  a  lot  of  it — nothing  like  that.  I  mean  the  way  he 
feels  toward  what  he's  got.  He  actually  loves  it.  He 
talks  about  it  almost  as  if  it  was  human;  about  what 
we  owe  to  it,  and  how  we  must  cherish  it.  He's  always 
said  it  wasn't  fair  to  take  what  it  had  to  give  without 


32  ROSY 

giving  something  back.  He  was  forever  thinking  how 
he  could  make  it  richer;  and  sometimes  when  the  plough 
had  passed  I've  seen  him  take  a  handful  of  earth  into 
his  palm  and  look  at  it  with  a  strange  expression  in  his 
eyes — as  if  he  could  see  flowers  in  it,  or  corn ;  or  as  if  it 
were  jewels,  or  a  young  bird,  or  something  we  must  be 
careful  with,  or  gentle.  He  wasn't  just  thinking  how 
much  he  could  get  out  of  it.  It  seemed  like  he  had  the 
idea  we  must  play  fair  with  the  land  if  we  expected  the 
land  to  be  generous  to  us.  That  may  sound  like  non- 
sense to  most  people  but  it  doesn't  to  me — now.  You 
see,  I  got  pretty  near  the  same  way  of  looking  at  it 
from  him.  He  used  to  say,  when  the  people  elected  a 
rascal  to  office,  or  anything  in  general  went  wrong: 
'Well,  Zeb,  you  can  depend  on  your  land,  anyway — if 
you  treat  it  right.' 

"Still,  he  didn't  say  a  lot  when  the  county  surveyor 
had  made  a  new  survey.  He  just  moved  his  fence  and 
let  the  strip  go — to  old  man  Lott.  But  he  used  to  sit 
around  of  an  evening  and  grieve,  and  wander  out 
across  the  fields  that  were  left — just  as  if  a  child  of  his 
had  gone  to  live  in  another  man's  house. 

"And  then  Lott  repeated  his  trick.  I  suppose  he 
thought  it  could  be  done  because  there  was  so  little 
fuss  the  first  time.  And  they  actually  ordered  another 
survey,  and  gave  old  Lott  another  strip." 

When  he  paused,  Rosy  broke  the  silence.  "  It  was  a 
shame!  "  she  cried. 

He  glanced  at  her  curiously  and  then  continued  in  an 
even  voice:  "And  I  wouldn't  stand  it,  that  second  time. 
I  lay  awake  all  night  trying  to  think  how  I  could  get 
even.  If  he'd  been  a  young  man  I'd  have  gone  over 
and  beat  him  up.  Be  he's  along  toward  seventy, 
and  got  that  trouble — the  asthma,  or  whatever  it  is. 
You  couldn't  lay  hands  on  a  man  like  that.  But  the 
next  day  I  saw  him  out  in  his  barnyard  with  his  horse. 


ROSY  33 

"I  never  could  understand  how  so  mean  a  man  could 
care  for  anything  the  way  he  cared  for  that  horse  of 
his.  He  called  it  a  high-school  horse.  He'd  trained  it 
to  do  almost  anything.  It  would  put  its  forefeet  on  his 
shoulders  and  follow  him  about  the  lot,  without  bear- 
ing down  scarcely  at  all;  and  put  its  head  down  between 
its  knees,  praying,  you  know.  And — oh,  I  don't  know 
what  all.  A  lot  of  tricks. 

"And  during  the  day  I  made  up  my  mind  I'd  go  over 
and  take  his  horse  away  from  him." 

Something  of  hardness  and  of  grim  humor  came  into 
his  tone  with  the  last  words,  and  he  stood  silently  re- 
calling his  revenge  and  the  outcome  of  it. 

"I  went  over  and  took  his  horse  away  from  him,  all 
right.  I  put  a  bridle  and  a  saddle  on  it  and  led  it  out 
of  the  lot.  When  he — old  Lott — tried  to  interfere,  I 
just  pushed  him  aside.  And  he  stood  staring  at  me, 
his  face  like  paper,  his  eyes  ready  to  fall  out  of  his 
head.  He  couldn't  make  it  out.  He  was  just  too  sur- 
prised to  do  anything  at  all.  He  didn't  even  go  for 
help.  He  just  screamed  at  me,  like  an  old  woman,  when 
I  opened  the  gate  and  rode  away. 

"I  met  people — a  number  of  parties — when  I  got 
into  the  main  road.  And  they  turned  and  looked 
after  me,  riding  old  man  Lett's  pet  horse.  Everybody 
knew  the  horse  as  well  as  they'd  know  the  Pisgah 
church  steeple.  But  they  didn't  say  a  word. 

"I  hadn't  given  a  thought  to  what  I  was  going  to  do 
in  the  wind-up.  My  only  thought  was  to  humiliate  and 
defy  old  Lott.  But  the  more  I  thought  of  it  the  more 
it  seemed  to  me  I'd  be  a  fool  if  I  just  went  back  and 
turned  the  horse  into  the  lot  where  it  belonged.  And 
so  I  kept  on  going.  I  kept  on  going  until  it  was  late 
night — until  it  was  daybreak.  And  the  first  thing  I 
knew  I'd  reached  the  Rock.  And  all  the  time  I  kept 
seeing,  plain  as  a  picture,  my  father's  face,  after  they'd 


34  ROSY 

robbed  him  of  his  second  strip  of  land.  And  so  when  a 
fellow  stopped  me  at  last  and  asked  me  if  I  wanted  to 
sell  my  horse,  it  came  to  me  plain  enough  what  to  do. 
YeSj'ft  said,  that  was  what  I'd  brought  it  to  the  Rock 
for — to  sell  it.  I  did  sell  it,  too. 

"I  threw  the  money  away — or  just  the  same  as  threw 
it  away.  I  didn't  want  to  keep  it,  or  anything  from  it 
that  I  could  keep.  I  was  a  good  fellow  for  a  day  or 
two,  in  all  kinds  of  places.  It  was  an  adventure.  And 
when  I'd  got  rid  of  that  money  I  came  back — and 
never  told  a  soul  where  I'd  been.  To  this  day  old  man 
Lott  don't  know  where  his  horse  went. 

".  .  .  You  know  what  happened  after  that.  When 
old  Lott  told  me  he  was  going  to  prove  that  I  took  his 
horse,  I  told  him  he  didn't  have  to  prove  it.  I  told  him 
I'd  tell  anybody,  any  place,  that  I  took  it.  I  asked 
him  what  he  meant  to  do  about  it.  And  I  reminded 
him  of  how  he'd  robbed  us  of  our  land. 

"I  reckon  I  must  have  been  a  little  crazy-like  for  the 
time  being — seeing  only  one  side  of  what  I'd  done.  I 
didn't  seem  to  know  rightly  how  I  stood  until  I  heard 
the  judge  say  something  about  five  years  in  the  peni- 
tentiary— at  the  trial,  I  mean.  And  then  I  thought  of 
my  father  again,  and  how  he'd  feel  having  me  locked 
up  with  a  lot  of  convicts.  I  was  sorry  then;  but  only 
sorry  for  him.  They'll  never  be  able  to  make  me  say 
I  did  wrong.  I  didn't.  Still,  I  found  that  the  same 
fellows  that  could  take  away  my  father's  land  could 
take  away  my  liberty. 

"But  I'll  ask  you  to  remember,  I  didn't  steal  any 
man's  horse." 

He  turned  and  looked  at  the  fire  again.  He  put  his 
hand  upon  his  trousers  leg,  testing  it.  "I'm  as  dry  as 
powder,"  he  said.  "I  guess  I'd  better  be  going." 


CHAPTER  IV 

HE  knew  it  was  a  sympathetic  silence  which  followed 
his  recital;  and  it  seemed  good  to  look  into  the  faces 
of  Rosy  and  Nat  Minturn.  He  had  realized  that  a 
kind  of  antipathy  existed  between  him  and  Minturn, 
because  each  could  see  that  the  other  looked  at  Rosy 
with  admiration  now  and  again.  But  jealous  thoughts 
were  put  to  flight  for  the  moment  when  Nanny  had 
made  it  plain  that  he  was  not  a  common  thief,  but  that 
he  had  only  obeyed  a  primitive  instinct  to  avenge  his 
wrongs. 

"It  was  a  shame!"  cried  Minturn  with  generous 
anger,  using  the  words  which  Rosy  had  used  a  moment 
earlier. 

Again  there  was  silence,  which  was  like  a  healing 
ointment  to  Nanny's  bruised  but  unbending  spirit. 
It  was  Rosy  who  asked  presently: 

"You  didn't  tell  us  how  they  happened  to  turn  you 
loose — and  you  to  go  back  of  your  own  free  will.  There's 
been  a  good  deal  of  talk  about  that.  I  couldn't  under- 
stand just  how  it  was." 

Nanny  smiled  faintly.  "I  reckon  it  was  some  of  this 
loving-kindness  business  that  idle  people  play  with 
when  they  don't  know  what  else  to  do.  They  put  me 
on  my  honor,  they  said;  as  if  no  harm  could  come  to 
me  if  I'd  be  good.  I  didn't  ask  them  if  anybody  had 
ever  put  old  man  Lott  on  his  honor — him  or  the  thieves 
who  robbed  my  father  of  his  land.  I'd  had  word  about 
my  mother  .  .  .  and  the  warden  told  me  to  go  home. 
He  gave  me  three  days." 

35 


36  ROSY 

Rosy's  searching  eyes  were  still  turned  upon  him 
with  a  question  in  them,  and  he  went  on: 

"It's  not  uncommon  any  more — letting  men  out  of 
prison,  I  mean.  A  lot  of  wardens  are  doing  it — letting 
big  batches  out  sometimes — for  Christmas  or  the  like 
of  that.  Some  crooks  have  a  better  time  in  prison  than 
out — with  a  lot  of  fool  people  looking  at  them  and  talk- 
ing about  them,  as  if  they  were  interesting,  and  women 
visiting  them  and  sending  them  presents." 

When  he  paused  for  a  moment  Minturn  looked  at 
him  furtively,  curiously.  He  was  thinking:  "He's  a 
convict  himself,  yet  he's  talking  as  if  he  hadn't  any- 
thing in  common  with  them  at  all." 

"My  idea  is,"  resumed  Nanny,  "that  fool  people 
ought  not  to  be  allowed  to  make  a  kind  of  game  out  of 
crime  and  the  men  that  commit  crimes.  If  a  man's  a 
criminal  he  ought  to  be  locked  up  until  he  feels  like 
behaving  himself.  A  man  that's  any  ways  right  don't 
want  any  man's  charity — no,  nor  his  gifts.  I  want 
what's  mine.  I  want  to  pay  a  fair  price  for  what  I 
get.  And  I  want  other  men  to  fare  the  same;  no  better 
and  no  worse." 

The  last  words  were  given  the  quality  of  a  peroration 
by  certain  exterior  aids.  Out  in  the  road  his  horse 
whinnied  to  him  beseechingly;  and  before  that  plain- 
tive sound  ended  a  flash  of  lightning  made  the  interior 
of  the  hut  starkly  white.  Thunder  followed;  a  deep 
rumble  which  rose  and  fell  and  died  away  at  last  in  a 
thousand  ravines  and  abysses. 

There  was  silence  then.  Nanny  had  said  his  say, 
and  Rosy  was  looking  up  at  him  with  a  kind  of  dumb 
craving,  as  if  she  would  have  liked  to  comfort  him  and 
knew  that  she  could  not.  Only  Minturn  seemed  to  be 
giving  his  mind  to  definite,  progressive  thought.  A 
beam  of  purposefulness  began  to  light  his  eye.  He 


ROSY  37 

frowned  slightly,  like  a  man  who  laboriously  shapes  an 
intricate  thought.  Presently  he  said,  in  a  tone  marked 
by  indecision: 

"And  you're  going  back  and  give  yourself  up  to 
them  again?" 

"What  else?  I  want  to  set  myself  right,  so  that 
when  I  come  out  my  hands  will  be  free  to  fight — so 
that  I  can  show  everybody  I'm  a  better  man  than  old 
Lott  or  his  kind.  Yes,  I'm  going  back.  I'm  going  to 
be  over  at  the  junction  at  midnight  to-night  to  catch 
the  down  train." 

Minturn,  nursing  one  knee  in  his  clasped  hands  and 
looking  intently  at  the  floor,  began  to  weave  the  web 
his  mind  had  fashioned — or  so  it  would  have  seemed. 
"It  seems  a  shameful  waste,"  he  began  almost  lightly, 
"at  a  time  when  the  country  has  got  so  much  for  its 
young  men  to  do.  You  might  be  going  away  to  one 
of  the  cantonments,  Zeb,  instead.  .  .  .  You  might  be 
getting  ready  to  go  to  France,  as  the  rest  of  us  will  be 
doing  when  our  time  comes." 

Nanny  shook  his  head.  "No  chance  for  me,"  he  said 
moodily.  "We  were  registered,  you  know,  a  few  weeks 
back.  I  mean  the  men  in  the  penitentiary.  I  wasn't. 
It  seemed  I  was  born  a  year  too  soon."  He  pondered 
for  a  time  and  then,  glancing  at  Minturn  keenly,  he 
added:  "You  needn't  have  any  doubt  about  my  want- 
ing to  go.  Nothing  like  that.  You  know  .  .  .  from 
my  place  inside  the  walls  you  can  hear  the  bugles 
blowing  in  a  field  not  far  away.  The  recruits  are  out 
there,  getting  ready  to  go  to  war.  You  can  hear  the 
commands;  you  can  hear  the  marching  feet.  And  that's 
the  thing  that  has  come  nearest  of  all  to  breaking  me 
—to  making  me  cry  for  mercy.  I've  sometimes  wished 
there  would  be  such  a  need  for  men  before  we're  through 
with  it  all  that  they  wouldn't  ask  a  man  how  old  he 


38  ROSY 

was,  nor  anything  about  his  condition.  You  know,  if  a 
convict  is  any  man  at  all  he  pines  away  not  because  of 
what's  inside  the  walls  but  because  of  what's  outside. 
It's  not  that  your  work  is  such  punishment;  but  some- 
times while  you're  doing  it  you  picture  a  field  in  the 
early  morning,  and  long  furrows,  and  the  birds  coming 
to  follow  your  plough,  and  children  on  their  way  to 
school,  and  voices  calling  in  another  field.  And  now 
there's  another  kind  of  pictures  I  see.  I  can  see  the 
recruits  marching  outside  the  walls,  holding  their 
heads  up  and  their  chests  out — I  can  hear  the  command : 
'Keep  your  chests  out!'  I  can  see  them.  You  know, 
those  young  fellows  .  .  .  there's  some  among  them 
that  might  never  amount  to  anything  in  ordinary  times. 
You  might  say  nothing  would  ever  wake  them  up. 
Yet  think  of  them  now !  They're  going  to  have  their 
part  in  the  biggest  thing  that  ever  was.  I  think  of 
that;  and  then  I  think  how  I'm  doing  common  labor 
with  a  lot  of  clods — a  lot  of  dirty  thieves  and  such;  or 
sitting  in  the  shade  of  a  wall — say  on  Sunday  or  in  the 
evenings — watching  the  shadows  come  closer  to  me  or 
creeping  away  from  me,  and  thinking  that  each  day 
will  never  come  to  an  end.  Great  God !  if  they'd  come 
to  me  and  say:  'You're  fit  to  go,  too  .  .  .' '  He  could 
not  continue.  His  fists  were  clinched,  he  was  breathing 
deeply,  rapidly.  It  was  plain  that  he  had  been  made  to 
touch  upon  a  subject  which  was  like  a  deep,  festering 
wound. 

Rosy  sat  with  her  face  turned  away,  a  picture  of 
helpless  sorrow.  But  Mintum  had  been  watching  Nanny 
keenly,  and  now  it  was  plain  that  he  had  undergone  a 
strange  transformation.  His  eyes  gleamed  with  a  joy 
which  was  not  to  be  hid — with  joy,  yet  with  a  certain 
uneasiness,  too;  for  he  had  not  yet  solved  the  problem 
of  turning  Nanny's  heroic  and  elated  attitude  to  his 


ROSY  39 

own  secret  and  peculiar  need.  Yet  he  sprang  to  his 
feet. 

"You're  fine,  Zeb !    You're  splendid !"  he  cried. 

But  Nanny  seemed  scarcely  to  heed  him  at  all.  He 
brought  himself  together  and  put  on  a  brisk  manner. 
"I've  stayed  too  long,"  he  said.  "I've  got  to  get  back 
to  Pisgah  in  time  for  the  night  train." 

But  Rosy  came  forward  now,  a  deepening  anxiety  in 
her  eyes.  "I'm  afraid  it's  going  to  storm  again,"  she 
said  reluctantly.  "It's  an  awful  journey  to  make  in  the 
night  when  it's  storming.  What  would  happen,  Zeb, 
if  you  didn't  take  the  train  until  to-morrow  night?" 

"Ah,  I  mustn't  miss  it,"  was  his  reply.  "To-morrow 
morning — that  was  the  time  set.  I  might  as  well  not 
go  back  at  all  unless  I  go  back  when  I  said  I  would." 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  that  can't  be  true,"  she  cried;  but  she 
could  see  at  once  that  it  was  useless  to  plead  with  him. 
He  was  energetically  slipping  into  his  coat. 

He  turned  and  sought  out  Mintum;  Minturn,  who 
was  frowning  and  who  was  obviously  struggling  with  a 
problem  which  was  too  intricate  for  him.  He  shook 
hands  with  Minturn;  but  absent-mindedly,  as  if  he 
were  not  thinking  of  him.  And  then  he  turned  to  Rosy. 

"Good-by,  Rosy,"  he  said  briskly.  "I'm  going  to 
turn  my  horse  into  your  lot — you'll  find  some  way  of 
sending  it  down  the  mountain  in  a  day  or  two.  And 
I'm  going  to  ask  you  for  the  loan  of  a  lantern.  I'll  see 
that  it  comes  back  to  you.  And  I'm  sure  thankful  to 
you  for  your  shelter  and  all."  He  shook  hands  with 
her,  too;  and  while  he  did  so  he  was  aware  that  Min- 
turn had  grown  eager  and  restless — as  if  unwonted 
thoughts  were  struggling  within  him  for  expression. 
He  was  wondering  what  was  the  matter  with  Nat  as 
he  moved  toward  the  door. 

But  his  final  survey  of  the  scene  without  sent  him 


40  ROSY 

back' into  the  room  with  a  cry  of  dismay.  At  the  very 
instant  of  the  door's  opening  a  flash  of  lightning  lighted 
the  mountain  and  deafening  thunder  followed.  There 
was  also  a  sudden  patter  of  rain. 

"You'll  have  to  stay  all  night,"  declared  Rosy. 

But  Nanny  supposed  she  was  addressing  Minturn. 
Minturn  would  have  to  remain  in  the  hut  for  the  night, 
certainly.  He  was  a  soft  fellow,  and  besides  there  was 
no  urgent  reason  for  him  to  leave  the  safe  harbor  which 
Rosy  could  offer  him. 

He  said  nothing.  He  thought  Rosy  would  provide  a 
lantern'  immediately. 

"Wait,  Zeb!"  It  was  Min turn's  faltering  voice. 
."Wait  .  .  ." 

And  just  then  something  quite  disconcerting  occurred. 
The  door  escaped  from  Nanny's  hand  and  flew  wide 
open  with  a  great  noise.  The  light  was  extinguished. 

Nanny  closed  the  door  with  difficulty,  using  his 
shoulder  against  it. 

"It  seems  as  if — "  he  began.  And  then  the  three 
persons  in  the  hut  drew  together  instinctively — Nanny 
and  Rosy  with  heads  erect,  valiantly,  and  Minturn 
shrinking  as  from  a  blow. 

An  ominous  roar  arose  in  the  distance.  It  steadily 
became  deeper,  more  powerful.  Rising  above  it  for 
just  an  instant  there  was  the  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs 
dashing  along  the  rocky  bench  road.  Nanny's  horse 
had  taken  fright  and  had  broken  away. 

And  then  that  deep,  shuddering  roar  ceased  to  be 
contained  within  a  single  note.  Its  particular  elements 
asserted  themselves.  There  was  the  loud  report  of 
tree-trunks  being  snapped  off  like  reeds,  and  then  there 
was  the  crashing  sound  of  the  trees  themselves  falling 
to  the  ground. 

A  tornado  was  passing  over  the  mountain. 


ROSY  41 

The  hut  trembled  and  rocked;  and  then  it  seemed  to 
brace  itself  as  if  it  were  a  sentient  thing,  resisting  a 
foe.  And  for  the  space  of  long  moments  there  was 
silence  within,  while  the  shocking  chaos  of  sounds  passed 
overhead.  Trees  were  falling  near  by — and  then  at  a 
distance.  It  seemed  that  the  hut  must  crumble  and 
collapse  presently;  but  minute  by  minute  the  strain 
upon  it  diminished.  The  din  outside  was  waning. 
And  then  the  storm  had  passed.  There  was  now  the 
almost  soothing  patter  of  rain. 

Nanny  relighted  the  lamp.  He  addressed  Rosy — as 
if  nothing  at  all  terrifying  had  occurred:  "Did  you 
say  you  could  lend  me  a  lantern,  Rosy?" 

"Oh,  must  you  go?"  she  pleaded.  There  was  a 
lovely  solicitude  in  her  voice  and  eyes. 

"It's  over  now,"  he  returned.    "Yes,  I  must  go." 

She  went  almost  humbly  and  brought  a  lantern;  and 
while  she  was  gone  Minturn  found  his  voice.  Terror — 
and  the  effort  to  conceal  it — had  driven  from  his  mind 
the  plan  he  had  been  considering — whatever  it  had  been. 

"I'd  like  you  to  take  my  rain-coat,  Zeb,"  he  said. 
"And — didn't  you  say  you'd  lost  your  hat?  You 
must  take  my  hat,  too.  I'll  get  along  very  well  with- 
out them." 

Relief  from  imminent  peril  seemed  to  have  made  him 
eager  to  be  kind  in  a  simple,  neighborly  way.  He  went 
and  brought  his  hat  and  his  rain-coat.  He  handed  the 
hat  to  Nanny,  and  held  the  coat  in  his  hands,  ready  for 
Nanny  to  turn  about  and  get  into  it.  "It  will  be  a 
close  fit,"  he  said  apologetically,  "but  it'll  be  better 
than  none." 

"No,  no,"  protested  Nanny,  "I'll  not  take  them. 
You'll  need  them." 

But  Rosy  had  now  returned  from  the  kitchen,  a 
lantern  in  her  hand. 


42  ROSY 

"Yes,  you  will,  Zeb,"  she  said  with  authority.  "You 
mustn't  be  foolish.  I'll  not  have  you  leave  my 
house  .  .  ." 

She  gazed  at  him  with  sudden  ardor;  she  seemed 
unable  to  finish  her  sentence.  And  Nanny,  strangely 
moved,  said  shortly:  "All  right." 

A  moment  later  he  had  gone,  without  another  word. 

During  a  calm  which  occurred  half  an  hour  later  she 
went  out  of  the  hut.  She  was  gone  only  a  moment  or 
two,  but  when  she  returned  she  held  Nanny's  hat  in 
her  hands.  "It  had  caught  fast  in  the  crotch  of  the 
tree,"  she  explained.  "Here,  you'd  better  put  it  away 
up  in  the  attic." 


CHAPTER  V 

HE  did  not  go  back  to  the  penitentiary. 

Two  days  later  a  dark  ru.mor  began  to  spread  through- 
out Pisgah  and  up  the  mountain  road  and  over  the 
mountain.  Zeb  Nanny  had  broken  his  word.  There 
had  been  at  first  a  confidential  telephone-message  from 
the  warden  at  Little  Rock  to  the  sheriff  at  Pisgah: 
Was  anything  known  of  the  whereabouts  of  Nanny, 
and  could  any  reason  be  suggested  for  his  failure  to  re- 
turn to  prison? 

Word  of  this  message  had  gotten  about  somehow, 
and  upon  a  small  foundation  of  fact  a  large  super- 
structure of  rumor  was  promptly  built.  Those  who 
knew  Zeb  best  were  gravely  fearful  that  he  had  been 
killed  during  the  storm.  (It  appeared  that  he  had  been 
seen  riding  moodily  in  the  direction  of  the  mountain 
the  night  before  he  was  to  have  returned  to  Little 
Rock,  and  it  was  soon  reported  with  authority  that  the 
horse  he  had  ridden  had  been  found  the  next  day  on 
Moab,  in  the  stable  of  the  man  who  had  formerly 
owned  him.)  And  there  were  those  who  sought  to  ac- 
quire reputations  for  cleverness  by  suggesting  that  the 
horse  might  have  been  turned  adrift  simply  for  the 
purpose  of  creating  a  wrong  impression,  and  that  the 
man  was  in  fact  hiding  somewhere — possibly  with  some 
lawless  mountaineer,  or  perhaps  in  one  of  the  many 
caves  in  the  mountain. 

Rumor  gave  place  to  knowledge  on  the  third  day 
following  the  storm.  The  Pisgah  Argus,  copying  from 

43 


44  ROSY 

one  of  the  Little  Rock  papers,  printed  the  news:  Nanny 
had  failed  to  return  to  prison,  according  to  promise, 
and  a  general  search  for  him  had  been  ordered.  The 
usual  machinery  had  been  set  in  motion :  police  systems 
in  many  cities,  private  agencies;  rewards  were  offered, 
a  description  supplied. 

Sheriff  Hammond  of  Pisgah  came  up  and  made  a 
superficial  search  on  the  mountain.  He  did  not  make 
any  concealment  of  his  opinion  that  he  would  not  find 
Nanny  on  the  mountain.  Nanny  had  not  been  killed 
during  the  storm,  he  maintained.  He  knew  the  moun- 
tain better  than  most  men  knew  what  was  in  their  own 
pockets.  He  would  have  found  a  safe  hiding-place  in 
time  of  danger.  Nor  would  he  be  hiding  anywhere  about 
the  mountain.  He  was  not  the  sort  of  man  who  hides, 
from  anything.  He  had  given  his  word  to  return  to 
Little  Rock,  and  he  would  have  started  back  to  Little 
Rock,  according  to  his  promise — of  these  things  the 
sheriff  professed  to  be  morally  certain. 

When  it  was  pointed  out  to  him  that  he  had  blocked 
the  way  to  plausible  explanations,  he  admitted  that  he 
had  done  so.  But  he  added:  "You  never  can  tell  what 
any  man  "will  do.  They  ain't  a  man  but  what'll  surprise 
you  before  the  end  of  a  day's  ride.  But  they's  certain 
men  .  .  .  you  can  say  under  oath  that  some  things 
they  won't  do."  Sheriff  Hammond  had  come  into  con- 
tact with  all  those  forces  which  tend  to  eliminate  a  pro- 
nounced dialect  from  the  speech  of  a  people,  but  he 
nevertheless  retained  certain  somewhat  quaint  manner- 
isms in  his  speech.  He  added  with  vigor:  "Zeb  Nanny 
wouldn't  break  his  word  to  no  man.  He  wasn't  a  coward 
and  he  wasn't  covetous — and  they  is  the  on'y  humans 
that  lies.  I  don't  know  where  Zeb  is,  but  I'm  pretty 
certain  I  know  where  he  ain't." 

However,   he  searched   the  mountain,   looking  into 


ROSY  45 

ravines  and  prodding  around  under  fallen  timber  and 
disturbed  earth.  But  of  Nanny  he  found  no  trace. 

It  should  be  recorded  that  Pisgah  and  the  surround- 
ing territory  were  inclined  to  accept  Sheriff  Ham- 
mond's judgment  touching  Nanny.  The  sheriff's 
speech  was  sometimes  conceded  to  be  amusing;  his 
original  turns  of  phrase  were  repeated  with  laughter. 
But  for  all  that,  Hammond  was  not  a  comic  figure.  He 
was  a  strikingly  picturesque  figure:  immense,  keen- 
eyed,  rather  fiercely  mustached.  His  garments  were  in 
keeping  with  his  calling.  He  wore  a  calfskin  waistcoat 
and  corduroy  trousers  and  a  big  hat  with  a  depressed 
brim  which  all  but  concealed  his  eyes  when  you  met 
him.  But  he  was  modest — he  could  be  all  but  softly 
deferential  at  critical  moments;  and  he  was  at  once 
courageous  and  kind.  These  qualities  were  tacitly 
conceded  by  all  who  knew  him — like  axioms  which  un- 
derlie certain  problems  in  mathematics. 

As  for  Zeb  Nanny,  there  was  no  solution  of  the  mys- 
tery which  involved  him  until  it  came,  simply  and 
quietly,  four  days  after  he  had  disappeared.  It  came 
in  the  form  of  a  letter  to  Rosy  Woodridge. 

Rosy's  permanent  post-office  was  Pisgah.  She  might 
have  had  it  changed  in  the  summer-time  to  Moab — for 
there  was  a  post-office  on  Moab  to  serve  the  more 
exacting  visitors  to  the  summit.  But  she  so  seldom  re- 
ceived any  mail  that  she  did  not  take  the  trouble  to 
make  the  change.  There  was,  however,  a  pleasantly 
informal  plan  by  which  the  people  of  Pisgah  and  its 
neighboring  country  served  one  another. 

When  the  postmaster  at  Pisgah  had  a  letter  for  Rosy 
he  held  himself  alert  for  a  sight  of  any  neighbor  of 
Rosy's  who  might  deliver  her  mail  to  her.  He  would 
go  quite  out  into  the  street  to  intercept  a  man  in  a 
wagon  who  was  on  his  way  to  Moab.  "A  letter  for 


46  ROSY 

Rosy  Woodridge,"  he  would  say  in  a  matter-of-fact 
tone.  "I  know  you're  going  that  way."  Or  he  would 
forward  Rosy's  occasional  letter  or  newspaper  or  cir- 
cular to  Moab  with  the  Moab  mail,  knowing  that  the 
postmaster  on  the  summit  would  be  on  the  lookout  for 
one  of  Rosy's  bench  neighbors,  thus  insuring  the  early 
delivery  of  her  mail. 

On  the  fourth  day  after  Zeb  Nanny's  disappearance, 
during  the  sunset  hour  when  Rosy  was  preparing  supper 
for  herself  and  Minturn — who  was  still  her  guest — old 
Jacob  Feld  came  and  knocked  with  a  cautious  air  at  her 
front  door. 

He  would  have  told  you  that  he  did  not  know  why 
Rosy  had  adopted  the  practice,  just  of  late,  of  keeping 
her  front  door  closed  both  day  and  night.  Perhaps  he 
would  have  professed  not  to  have  noticed  this  marked 
variation  from  the  bench  custom. 

When  Rosy  heard  the  summons  at  her  door  she  hesi- 
tated long  enough  to  glance  significantly  at  Minturn; 
and — very  singularly,  it  would  have  seemed — he  hastily 
and  silently  climbed  the  ladder  up  into  the  attic,  just 
as  he  had  done  on  an  earlier  occasion  when,  in  the 
night,  Zeb  Nanny  had  stumbled  against  the  closed 
window. 

Then  Rosy  opened  the  door — with  a  suggestion  of 
having  been  delayed  a  moment  by  some  household  task. 
"Oh,  Mr.  Feld!"  she  exclaimed  cordially. 

"Your  mail,  Rosy,"  explained  the  old  man.  He 
handed  her  a  letter  and  a  newspaper.  "I  just  came 
down  from  the  summit." 

He  was  turning  away  almost  before  he  had  explained 
his  mission,  and  Rosy  looked  after  him  almost  fondly, 
yet  with  a  question  in  her  eyes,  too.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  Jacob  Feld  was  not  behaving  quite  naturally  of 
late,  and  she  wondered.  .  .  . 


ROSY  47 

She  was  not  wise  in  the  matter  of  those  things  which 
come  by  mail.  She  would  not  have  been  quite  sure 
whether  an  envelope  contained  a  circular  or  a  letter. 
And  she  was  not  expecting  a  letter.  She  placed  the 
envelope  and  the  newspaper  on  a  table. 

She  did  not  give  another  thought  to  them  until 
after  supper,  and  then,  while  Minturn  sat  reading  the 
newspaper,  the  Pisgah  Argus,  she  opened  her  letter — 
for  it  was  a  letter,  and  an  amazingly  long  one. 

She  read: 

If  I  do  wrong  in  writing  to  you,  Rosy,  I  ask  you  to  excuse 
me,  but  there  is  something  I  cannot  bear  not  to  tell  you.  It 
is  this — You  have  given  my  life  back  to  me.  You  have  done 
so  by  making  me  welcome  when  I  came  to  your  house  and  by 
showing  me  that  you  did  not  wish  me  to  come  to  harm.  Not 
by  what  you  said  so  much  as  by  what  you  are.  I  cannot  think 
of  the  world  with  evil  in  my  mind,  or  even  indifference,  while  I 
know  that  you  are  in  it.  I  hope  you  will  care  to  know  that 
hereafter  whenever  I  have  to  make  a  choice  in  anything — in 
what  I  shall  say  or  do — I  shall  always  think  first  of  you,  because 
I  know  that  you  are  good. 

I  think  better  days  lie  ahead  for  me,  thanks  to  you — and  to  Nat 
too  a  little,  though  his  help  was  by  a  strange  chance.  I  want 
to  tell  you  about  that  too,  and  maybe  you  will  want  to  tell 
Nat  when  you  see  him  again — though  I  hope  he  will  not  speak 
of  it  for  a  while  at  least. 

You  know  he  let  me  have  his  rain-coat  when  I  came  away? 
I  think  in  a  way  his  doing  so  really  saved  me.  I  did  not  reach 
Pisgah  in  time  to  get  the  night  train.  In  fact  I  did  not  reach 
Pisgah  at  all.  The  road  was  very  bad — there  were  many  fallen 
trees — everything  was  confusion.  And  when  I  saw  that  I  should 
not  be  able  to  catch  the  train  I  began  making  wholly  different 
plans.  I  found  a  little  cave  on  Moab,  very  warm  and  dry,  and 
there  I  slept  the  rest  of  the  night  and  part  of  next  day.  I  waited 
for  night  again,  and  by  that  time  the  road  had  been  cleared 
partly  and  it  was  not  so  dark.  I  set  out  again,  like  a  thief,  hid- 
ing from  every  one,  and  did  not  stop  until  I  reached  the  junc- 
tion. I  will  not  tell  you  all  that  happened  on  the  way — the  nar- 
row escapes  I  had.  At  the  junction  I  caught  a  freight-train.  I 
was  afraid  to  wait  for  day  and  ride  on  the  passenger.  I  stole 


48  ROSY 

my  way  to  Little  Rock,  no  one  seeing  me,  not  even  the  brake- 
man  on  the  train. 

I  will  leave  out  a  good  deal  here  and  tell  you  about  the  next 
day,  when  I  had  the  narrowest  escape  of  all.  I  had  eaten  in  a 
restaurant  and  then — you  will  guess  what  I  meant  to  do.  I 
meant  to  find  a  recruiting  office  and  enlist.  I  knew  there  were 
chances  to  run — I  mean,  that  some  one  who  knew  me  would 
see  me.  I  came  out  of  the  restaurant  and  stopped  on  the  street 
a  minute,  trying  to  think  how  to  find  a  recruiting  office.  Just 
then  I  saw  two  policemen  coming,  walking  side  by  side.  And 
then  I  did  the  wrong  thing.  I  stepped  into  a  doorway,  hoping 
the  policemen  would  pass  without  seeing  me.  But  they  saw 
me.  And  I  could  not  have  looked  very  good  to  them — after 
riding  on  the  freight,  you  know,  and  being  nervous.  They 
spoke  to  me  roughly — as  if  they  knew  everything.  They  searched 
me,  and  I  held  out  my  arms  and  let  them.  I  was  sure  they  would 
find  nothing.  I  thought  I  had  nothing  beside  the  little  money 
I  had  been  given  to  buy  my  ticket  with.  While  they  searched 
I  tried  to  think  what  to  say — about  who  I  was,  you  know,  and 
what  I  was  doing.  I  tried  to  think  what  name  I  should  give 
them  if  they  asked  what  my  name  was.  I  knew  I  must  not  tell 
them  my  own  name,  for  fear  they  might  already  have  been 
told  to  search  for  a  man  of  that  name.  And  then  one  of  them 
pulled  a  letter  out  of  the  rain-coat  I  had  on.  As  he  did  so  he 
demanded — "What's  your  name?"  And  I  saw  the  letter  in 
his  hand,  and  I  took  a  chance.  "Nat  Minturn,"  I  said.  That 
seemed  to  satisfy  him.  He  asked,  not  so  roughly,  "What  are 
you  doing  here?"  And  I  said,  "I'm  looking  for  a  recruiting 
office.  I  want  to  enlist."  That  saved  me.  Both  the  officers 
behaved  differently  right  away.  One  of  them  said,  "All  right, 
we'll  show  you  a  recruiting  office."  And  they  did.  There  was 
one  not  far  away.  They  both  went  with  me.  They  became 
friendly.  When  we  came  to  the  recruiting  office  one  of  them 
said  to  the  man  in  charge,  "Sergeant,  here's  a  man  looking  for 
you."  And  the  sergeant  asked  me  what  my  name  was  and  I 
told  him  it  was  Nat  Minturn. 

I  could  hardly  help  myself,  Rosy — not  without  throwing 
away  my  last  chance.  I  hope  it  was  not  a  very  wrong  thing 
that  I  did.  I  will  try  hard  not  to  make  Nat  ashamed  that  I 
borrowed  his  name. 

And  I'm  enlisted  now,  Rosy,  and  on  my  way — already  far 
from  Little  Rock. 


ROSY  49 

Guard  my  secret,  Rosy — guard  it  as  I  shall  always  have  to 
guard  another  secret:  the  things  my  heart  and  I  whisper  to  each 
other  whenever  I  write  your  name. 

She  read  the  letter  slowly  to  the  end;  incredulously, 
at  first,  and  almost  dully,  but  with  a  slowly  dawning 
light  and  a  deep  rapture  beginning  to  stir  within  her. 

She  had  read  to  the  end  and  had  gone  back  to  the 
beginning  when  she  was  startled  by  a  loud  cry  from 
Minturn.  He  had  brought  his  hands  together  sharply, 
crushing  the  Argus  between  them,  and  he  cried  out  her 
name  in  a  tone  of  consternation  mingled  with  joy: 

"Rosy!" 

She  laid  her  letter  on  her  lap  and  looked  at  him  with 
a  certain  lack  of  responsiveness.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
nothing  he  could  say  would  be  of  the  slightest  impor- 
tance compared  with  the  glorious  news  she  had  just 
read.  "What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

He  began  to  straighten  out  the  sheets  in  his  hand. 
"There's  a  list  of  names  here,"  he  began,  "copied  from 
the  Gazette — the  Little  Rock  paper,  you  know.  It's  a 
list  of  Arkansas  men  who  have  enlisted  for  service  in  the 
army.  And  whose  name  do  you  suppose  is  on  the  list?  " 

She  smiled  strangely  and  held  the  letter  caressingly 
between  her  two  hands.  "I  know  what  name  it  is," 
she  said.  "It  is  your  name." 

He  stared  at  her  incredulously.  "Yes,"  he  said  won- 
deringly.  He  found  the  place  in  the  paper  and  read: 
"Nat  Minturn,  Pisgah."  His  eyes  met  hers  again. 
"But  how  .  .  .?"  he  began. 

"This  is  a  letter  from  Zeb,"  she  replied,  indicating 
the  sheets  on  her  lap.  "Wait — I'll  read  some  of  it  to 
you." 

He  had  put  forth  his  hand  for  the  letter,  but  she 
drew  back  from  him.  "I'll  read,"  she  repeated. 

She  read  aloud  that  part  of  the  letter  describing  the 


50  ROSY 

encounter  with  the  policemen.  She  brought  out  with  a 
certain  impressiveness  the  final  sentence:  /  will  try  hard 
not  to  make  Nat  asJiamed  that  I  borrowed  his  name.  She 
raised  her  eyes  with  a  sudden  soft  entreaty  in  them. 
"You  don't  mind,  do  you?"  she  asked. 

She  was  amazed  by  the  effect  her  question  had  upon 
him.  He  dashed  the  paper  aside  and  leaned  toward 
her.  There  was  an  unwonted  intensity  in  his  manner. 
"Mind?"  he  echoed;  "mind?  Why,  the  poor  fool— I 
mean,  I'd  have  given  all  I  ever  hope  to  possess — ten 
times  over — to  have  him  do  the  very  thing  he  has  done. 
I  wanted  to  beg  him  to  do  it  the  night  he  was  here. 
I — I  was  in  despair  because  I  couldn't  bring  myself  to 
ask  him.  But  there  was  something  about  him  .  .  ." 

"But  why?"  she  asked,  trying  vainly  to  read  his 
eyes. 

He  shrank  back  within  himself  and  for  a  time  sat 
frowning  and  staring  into  vacancy.  He  aroused  him- 
self at  length. 

"Rosy,"  he  began,  "when  I  came  here  to  your  house 
and  asked  you  to  hide  me  .  .  ."  He  broke  off  and 
flushed  dully  and  cast  about  helplessly  for  words. 

"Goon,  Nat,"  she  said. 

"I  told  you  I  had  had  a  quarrel  with  my  father — that 
I  wanted  to  hide  from  him" 

"Yes?" 

"That  wasn't  true — I  mean,  it  wasn't  the  whole 
truth.  It  was  when  we  were  all  registering — all  the 
young  men,  I  mean.  And  I  didn't  want  to  register. 
I  didn't  register.  I  didn't  want  to  go  into  the  army. 
You  understand?  I  told  my  father  I  was  going  away  to 
enlist — that  I  didn't  want  to  wait  until  I  had  to  go.  We 
did  have  a  quarrel — about  that.  He  said  I  was  a  fool. 
He  didn't  know  what  the  truth  was.  And  I  slipped 
away — he  thought  I  was  going  to  Little  Rock,  I  think 


ROSY  51 

— and  came  up  here.  Just  as  Nanny  did — without  a 
soul  knowing."  He  paused  a  moment.  He  did  not 
look  at  her;  it  seemed  that  he  had  difficulty  in  doing 
so.  But  presently  he  lifted  his  eyes  and  added:  "Mind? 
I  should  say  I  don't  mind.  It's  like  the  wildest  kind  of 
a  dream  come  true." 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE  next  day  was  a  Sunday — a  very  lovely  day. 

Rosy  escaped  from  the  house  rather  early  in  the 
morning.  She  wanted  to  be  alone — she  wanted  to 
think.  There  was  a  certain  bewilderment  in  her  mind 
— certain  partly  unformed  doubts.  She  was  thinking 
of  Minturn,  and  how  he  had  come  to  her  house,  and 
why. 

There  is  a  limit  even  to  the  hospitality  of  the  moun- 
tain folk.  There  was  a  limit  even  to  Rosy's  hospital- 
ity. So  it  was  that  when  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  the 
limpid  skies  there  was  an  expression  of  dubiousness  in 
them. 

She  had  seen  no  impropriety  in  harboring  Minturn. 
Her  parents  would  have  harbored  any  one  in  need  of 
shelter.  Why  shouldn't  she  have  done  so?  She  had 
always  liked  Nat.  He  was  a  quiet,  pleasant  young  fel- 
low. She  had  always  felt  a  little  sorry  for  him.  He 
had  had  a  way  of  looking  wistfully  at  the  other  boys 
when  they  all  came  up  on  the  mountain  to  play — as  if 
somehow  he  envied  them.  He  was  less  hardy,  less 
venturesome  than  they.  The  other  boys  did  not  treat 
him  very  considerately.  They  seemed  to  be  implying 
by  all  their  words  and  deeds  that  there  was  a  difference 
between  him  and  them. 

It  had  seemed  to  her  a  lark  to  take  him  in  and  to 
make  a  secret  of  his  visit.  She  had  heard  many  unkind 
things  of  his  father,  who  had  the  reputation  of  being  a 
mean,  heartless  man.  That  made  it  all  the  more  de- 
lightful to  befriend  his  son. 

But  Nat  hadn't  told  her  that  he  meant  to  remain  in- 

s* 


ROSY  53 

definitely.  And  it  made  a  difference — his  expecting, 
perhaps,  to  remain  a  very  long  time. 

The  image  of  Nanny  crossed  her  mind;  and  that  made 
her  think  of  Minturn  again.  She  saw  him  in  a  new 
light.  Minturn  had  not  wanted  to  go  to  the  war — but 
Nanny  had  esteemed  it  a  great  privilege  to  do  so.  Not, 
she  felt  sure,  because  he  was  in  prison.  He  would  have 
wished  to  do  so  in  any  event.  And  she  tried  to  decide 
what  this  difference  between  the  two  men  meant. 

The  real  significance  of  the  war  had  not  been  brought 
at  all  close  to  her  as  yet.  Nanny's  going  did  not, 
therefore,  assume  in  her  eyes  a  matter  of  stern  duty. 
It  made  him  appear  rather  a  sort  of  crusader  going 
forth  to  lift  his  hand  against  a  universal  evil — but  not 
a  specific  evil.  But  his  going  was  splendid;  and  there- 
fore Nat's  desire  not  to  go  was  .  .  .  What? 

The  wreck  of  a  picturesque,  low  stone  wall  extended 
part  of  the  way  between  Rosy's  house  and  the  high- 
way. It  had  been  begun  by  Rosy's  father  many  years 
ago.  He  had  built  it  little  by  little,  in  a  leisurely,  al- 
most purposeless  fashion.  There  were  years  during 
which  he  was  forever  bending  his  eyes  upon  the  ground 
wherever  he  went;  and  occasionally  he  stooped  and 
picked  up  a  rock  of  a  certain  size  and  shape;  and  those 
who  saw  him  came  in  time  to  know  that  when  he  did 
this  it  was  because  he  had  found  a  rock  which  fitted 
some  crevice  in  his  wall. 

He  had  never  finished  the  self-imposed  task.  When 
he  gave  over  looking  for  rocks  of  a  certain  size  and 
shape,  he  explained  that  he  had  no  need  of  a  wall  before 
his  house,  after  all;  though  those  who  knew  him  best 
knew  that  it  was  precisely  in  keeping  with  his  character 
that  he  had  abandoned  the  task  he  had  begun.  It  was 
their  belief  that  Sam  Woodridge — excellent  man  and 
neighbor  that  he  was — had  the  one  lamentable  fault  of 


54  ROSY 

never  finishing  anything.  There  was  no  surprise  among 
them  when  the  wall,  which  had  grown  for  many  years 
with  something  of  the  celerity  of  a  coral  reef — as  if  it 
were  a  sort  of  larger  insect  growth — ceased  forever  to 
grow  at  all. 

...  As  she  pondered,  Rosy  climbed  up  to  one  of  the 
few  remaining  flat  surfaces  on  top  of  the  wall,  and  gave 
herself  wholly  over  to  meditation.  She  sat  rather 
sedately,  with  ripe  peaches  of  a  dusky  rosiness  hanging 
over  her  head.  A  flock  of  hens  with  brilliantly  red 
gills  and  combs  and  bright,  silly  eyes  dusted  them- 
selves in  a  corner  of  the  wall  near  by.  They  ruffled 
themselves  with  such  untimely  industry  that  Rosy 
could  not  bear  to  look  at  them.  The  heat  of  summer 
was  oppressive,  even  on  the  mountain. 

Before  her  the  mountain  ascended  sharply,  clear  to 
the  summit.  A  little  to  her  right  the  immense  and 
mysterious  Sphinx  Rock — one  of  the  sights  of  the  bench 
road  which  were  pointed  out  to  visitors — hung  pre- 
cariously in  its  place.  The  mystery  of  the  Sphinx  Rock 
was  its  seeming  instability.  What  held  it  in  its  place 
there  on  the  steep  slope?  It  was  nearly  round  and  of  a 
fairly  smooth  surface — an  immense  object  fully  a  hun- 
dred feet  in  diameter.  Why  should  it  not,  at  any  mo- 
ment, go  hurtling  across  the  bench  and  go  plunging 
down  into  the  valley,  thousands  of  feet  below?  The 
mountain  folk  did  not  know.  They  did  not  inquire  too 
curiously.  To  have  done  so  would  have  been  to  dispel 
its  mystery.  They  only  knew  that  as  far  back  as  mem- 
ory extended  the  Sphinx  Rock  had  lain  perched  there, 
seemingly  defying  the  law  of  gravity. 

It  had  always  held  a  strange  fascination  for  Rosy; 
as  if  she  held  that  as  long  as  it  remained  in  its  place 
the  fact  must  be  accepted  by  her  as  a  sign  that  life 
had  nothing  of  change  in  store  for  her.  And  sometimes 


ROSY  55 

it  seemed  to  her  that  her  days  were  dreadfully  long  and 
uneventful. 

She  sat  with  her  shoulders  drooping  a  little  and  her 
face  pitched  back,  dreamily  regarding  the  Sphinx  Rock 
— her  own  face  almost  as  inscrutable  as  the  story  of  the 
rock  itself;  and  for  once  she  was  unaware  that  a  little 
lizard  which  she  really  believed  had  come  to  know  her 
had  emerged  from  its  place  in  the  wall  and  stood  pant- 
ing in  the  sunshine  almost  within  arm's  length  of  her. 
She  was  thinking  that,  after  all,  something  had  hap- 
pened. She  was  hiding  a  man  in  her  house.  And  she 
was  thinking  that  perhaps  she  should  have  preferred 
that  just  this  sort  of  thing  hadn't  happened. 

She  was  aroused  by  the  noise  of  a  party  of  men  com- 
ing along  the  road.  There  were  Springer  and  Doctor 
Garner — old,  and  with  only  one  arm — and  half  a  dozen 
other  bench  men.  They  were  mending  the  road. 

Sunday  was  a  day  of  special  labor  on  Moab.  During 
six  days  in  the  week  the  men  of  the  mountain  attended 
to  their  own  personal  affairs,  often  doing  next  to  noth- 
ing. But  the  Sabbath  was  devoted  to  public  service; 
and  when  the  road  needed  mending,  Sunday  was  the 
day  set  aside  for  mending  it 

The  storm  had  done  much  damage  to  the  road,  much 
of  which  had  had  to  be  repaired  the  next  day.  The  ob- 
stacles which  had  made  traffic  impossible  had  been 
promptly  removed.  But  now  certain  lesser  tasks  were 
being  performed. 

The  men  bore  their  responsibilities  lightly,  convers- 
ing in  a  fragmentary  manner  as  they  worked. 

Springer  was  the  noisiest  member  of  the  group.  He 
was  what  the  bench  folk  called  an  opinionated  man; 
you  gained  nothing  at  all  by  disagreeing  with  him. 

Springer  was  now  speaking,  and  Rosy  listened  to 
what  he  had  to  say.  It  seemed  to  her  that  everybody 


56  ROSY 

in  the  world  must  be  talking  about  Zeb  Nanny  just 
now,  and  wondering  what  had  become  of  him.  Since 
Zeb's  letter  had  reached  her  she  felt  a  new,  a  tremendous 
sense  of  responsibility  with  reference  to  him. 

But  Springer  was  not  speaking  of  Nanny.  "America 
is  all  right,"  he  said,  as  if  in  response  to  something  one 
of  the  others  had  said,  "but  what  does  it  want  to  fight 
against  Germany  for?  It's  got  nothing  against  Ger- 
many. Germany  .  .  .  it's  the  best  place  of  all  for  a 
poor  man.  Apples  grow  along  the  roads,  and  there's 
always  a  lot  of  fun  at  harvest-time,  with  sausage  and 
good  rye  bread,  and  maybe  something  to  drink  out  of  a 
jug — and  singing!  America  won't  make  anything  by 
going  into  the  war,  anyway." 

Old  Doctor  Garner  straightened  up  and  stared  at 
Springer.  He  was  of  very  little  help  as  a  road-mender. 
His  own  idea  was  that  he  brought  to  the  task  the  bene- 
fit of  a  superior  intellect.  He  was  regarded  by  most  of 
the  other  men  as  a  not  very  detrimental  interference. 
He  now  presented  an  aspect  of  a  peculiar  instability— 
as  if  he  might  explode  or  rise  straight  up  into  the  air  if 
Springer  said  very  much  more.  That  lost  arm  of  his 
had  been  left  at  Gettysburg.  He  didn't  like  Springer, 
who  was  known  to  get  a  German-language  newspaper 
from  St.  Louis  every  week. 

"Anyway,"  continued  Springer,  serenely  unaware  of 
the  storm  brewing  in  the  old  doctor's  hard,  frosty  head, 
"it  won't  do  any  good.  America  can't  do  anything. 
Germany  will  win.  The  Germans  are  the  best  soldiers. 
The  Americans  are  all  right  up  to  a  certain  point;  but 
when  it  comes  to  fighting,  they'll  only  go  so  far — and 
when  they  hear  the  shooting  they  will  drop  their  guns 
and  run." 

Doctor  Garner  flung  his  spade  to  the  rocky  road  with 
a  great  crash.  "Springer,"  he  announced,  "if  you  say 


ROSY  57 

that  again,  now  or  at  any  other  time,  I'll  cut  your  ears 
off."  He  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

Another  bench  man  interposed.  He  was  quite  in 
sympathy  with  the  old  doctor,  but  he  saw  no  adequate 
reason  for  trouble.  "Why,  Doc,"  he  said  with  a  smile, 
"you  don't  want  to  fight  German  style,  do  you?" 

"I'll  cut  your  ears  off,"  repeated  the  doctor,  without 
removing  his  eyes  from  Springer. 

Springer  was  merely  bewildered.  "I  didn't  mean 
nothing,"  he  declared.  "They  might  fight  all  right,  but 
they'll  never  go  across  the  ocean  to  fight  Germany. 
They'll  refuse  to  go  when  it  comes  to  getting  on  the 
ships." 

"They'll  do  what  their  government  asks  them  to 
do,"  said  the  doctor.  "We've  got  a  government  in  this 
country.  Don't  forget  that.  The  trouble  with  you 
Germans  is  that  you  can't  believe  in  authority  unless 
you  see  the  street  filled  with  helmets  every  time  you 
look  out  of  the  window." 

Springer  doggedly  addressed  himself  to  the  task  of 
removing  a  decayed  limb  which  lay  in  his  path.  Never- 
theless, he  persisted:  "Germany  is  a  better  country 
than  this,  where  you've  got  the  big  trusts,  and  rich  men 
buying  up  what  the  poor  people  need :  wheat  and  oil  and 
coal." 

"Then  why  don't  you  go  back  to  Germany?"  de- 
manded the  doctor. 

It  was  Springer's  turn  to  be  enraged  now.  "Why 
don't  I  go  back?"  he  thundered;  "why  don't  I  go  back? 
That  same  fool  question!  Can  any  man  go  back? 
Can  you  go  back  to  your  youth  again  ? " 

"I  can't,"  said  the  doctor  more  calmly.  "And  it's 
a  wise  man  that  knows  that,  Springer.  It's  not  Germany 
that  you  regret.  It's  your  youth,  that  looks  rosier  and 
rosier  to  you  all  the  time  while  your  bones  stiffen  and 


58  ROSY 

your  blood  thins  and  you  forget  how  you  had  to  work. 
You're  a  fool  for  thinking  it's  the  country  you're  in 
that's  to  blame  because  life  doesn't  look  to  you  the  way 
it  did  when  you  was  twenty-one." 

They  all  resumed  their  work  then,  and  presently 
they  had  moved  so  far  down  the  road  that  Rosy  could 
not  hear  them  any  more.  But  they  had  brought  her  a 
new  consciousness  of  the  war;  of  the  war,  and  of  Nanny 
• — and  of  Minturn. 

Presently  she  aroused  herself  and  jumped  down  from 
the  wall — as  if  she  had  made  up  her  mind  not  to  wait 
for  the  Sphinx  Rock  to  fall,  but  to  take  life  into  her  own 
hands  and  do  with  it  what  she  could. 

She  went  into  the  barnyard  and  disappered  in  the 
ramshackle  shed  at  the  back;  and  when  she  appeared 
again  she  wore  a  hat  and  was  seated  in  a  buggy  drawn 
by  an  ancient  horse.  Plainly  she  had  gone  into  the 
house  between  times  and  put  on  another  dress.  And 
now  it  was  evident  that  she  meant  to  drive  somewhere. 

The  carriage  in  which  she  sat  must  have  provoked 
derision  in  some  localities,  though  it  was  considered 
quite  good  enough  for  mountain  use.  And  the  horse 
she  drove  was  an  ancient,  self-willed  creature  that  had 
been  a  family  pet  for  twenty  years.  (Rosy  had  kept 
the  horse  after  the  death  of  her  parents,  not  because 
she  supposed  she  should  have  frequent  use  for  it,  but 
because  it  had  always  seemed  like  one  of  the  family,  and 
because  of  its  persistent  and  disquieting  habit  of  seem- 
ing to  ask  every  day  or  so,  in  its  own  way,  what  had  be- 
come of  Sam  Woodridge.) 

She  drove  with  an  air  of  caution;  not  because  she  felt 
nervous  at  the  thought  of  the  task  which  she  had  set 
herself,  but  obviously  for  reasons  which  were  secret 
and  her  own.  She  had  locked  her  front  door,  which 
Was  contrary  to  her  practice  and  to  the  practice  of  all 


ROSY  59 

her  neighbors;  and  then  she  had  driven  away  with  her 
eyes  straight  before  her,  as  if  there  could  be  no  reason 
at  all  for  her  to  look  back,  either  in  fact  or  in  fancy. 

She  traversed  the  bench  road  thoughtfully,  quite 
contrary  to  her  habit.  For  the  bench  road  had  always 
been  a  place  of  endless  enticements  to  her.  To  her 
right  the  mountain  ascended  sharply:  a  rock-ribbed, 
verdure-clad  wall;  and  looking  up  one  might  catch 
glimpses,  through  the  tangle  of  vines  and  stunted  trees, 
of  the  aristocratic  summer  cottages  up  on  the  summit; 
cottages  which  spelled  romance  to  all  the  mountain 
folk,  since  they  were  constant  reminders  of  that  favored 
class  of  men  and  women  who  did  not  have  to  work  in 
the  heat  of  summer,  but  who  could  seek  comfortable 
spots  where  they  need  do  nothing  but  spend  money  for 
comforts  and  luxuries. 

They  came  from  remote  and  scattered  places;  a  fact 
which  added  another  element  of  romance  to  their  lives. 
Some  were  the  families  of  professional  men  or  mer- 
chants in  Memphis  and  Little  Rock;  and  there  were 
others  about  whom  little  was  known,  who  came  from 
the  far-away  cities  of  the  hot  Texas  plains.  And  there 
were  a  few  who  came  down  from  St.  Louis,  and  spoke 
a  little  patronizingly  of  "going  back  to  nature,"  and  who 
claimed  that  Moab  was  really  more  comfortable  than 
the  lake  resorts  or  the  Eastern  watering-places.  The 
summer  colony  life  was  at  its  height  now.  The  Pisgah 
hack,  making  two  trips  daily,  was  always  filled  with  the 
happy,  enviable  strangers,  coming  or  going. 

On  Rosy's  left,  as  she  drove  along  the  bench  road, 
there  was  a  different — and,  on  the  whole,  perhaps  a 
more  wholesome — prospect:  the  gardens  of  her  own 
neighbors,  homely  and  unpretentious,  with  a  dizzy 
vista  beyond  of  valley  and  river,  lying  like  a  vast, 
glorious  picture  beneath  the  observer's  eyes.  The 


60  ROSY 

gardens  were  roughly  waited  at  the  foot,  so  that  no 
absent-minded  individual  would  miss  his  footing  and 
be  precipitated  some  thousands  of  feet  through  trees 
and  over  rocky  crags  into  the  corn-field  or  cotton-field 
of  some  valley  farmer,  or  into  the  river. 

Rosy  was  not  sorry  when  she  passed  the  Springers' 
that  there  was  nobody  in  sight.  She  felt  that  she  was 
acquiring  a  new  attitude  toward  the  Springers — and 
she  had  never  liked  them  particularly.  Springer's  loud- 
ness  had  always  seemed,  somehow,  to  signify  so  little; 
to  be  in  a  false  key — a  kind  of  merriment  that  would 
bear  watching.  And  Mrs.  Springer  had  never  contrib- 
uted to  the  joy  of  life  on  the  mountain.  She  was  a 
gaunt,  sallow  woman,  whose  days  were  filled  with  mur- 
mured complaints  and  petty  lamentations.  Their  son, 
Hermann,  was  one  of  those  colorless  young  men  whom 
no  one  seems  to  know  intimately,  perhaps  because  there 
is  so  little  for  them  to  know.  He  was  as  German  as  his 
parents,  though  he  was  born  in  America — and  Rosy  had 
suddenly  discovered  that  she  did  not  like  that. 

Still,  she  was  sorry  that  Jacob  Feld  was  not  to  be  seen 
pottering  about  his  front  yard,  or  in  the  stable-lot,  when 
she  passed  his  place  a  hundred  yards  farther  on.  He 
was  quite  a  different  sort  of  man  from  Springer— and 
this  realization  was  disquieting  in  a  way.  For  clearly 
one  could  not  say,  "I  do  not  like  the  Germans,"  and 
leave  this  statement  unqualified;  for  were  there  not 
different  kinds  of  Germans,  just  as  there  were  different 
kinds  of  Americans? 

Jacob  Feld  was  a  kind  man — you  could  not  have  any 
doubt  about  that;  and  a  modest  man,  too.  And  there 
was  something  genuine  about  him.  It  did  you  good  to 
look  into  his  quietly  beaming  eyes  and  listen  to  his 
rather  plaintive  yet  resonant  voice.  Thinking  of  him 
and  his  pleasant,  neighborly  ways,  Rosy  wished  that 
there  had  never  been  any  war,  and  that  it  might  be 


ROSY  61 

over  speedily.  Such  men  as  Jacob  Feld  couldn't  help 
what  the  German  Government  did — nor  could  they 
help  loving  the  memory  of  their  childhood,  and  their 
kindred  across  the  sea.  She  felt  sorry  for  poor  old 
Feld;  and  she  made  a  resolution  to  think  of  other 
things  than  the  war  when  she  encountered  him,  and  to 
speak  just  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  She  smiled  as 
she  recalled  the  figure  of  Mrs.  Feld,  who  was  so  fleshy 
it  seemed  a  miracle  that  the  seams  of  her  waist  were  not 
always  ripping,  especially  when  she  kughed.  And 
the  Feld  girls  and  Charley  Feld — they  were  as  good  as 
she  was,  she  reflected,  and  not  really  different  in  any 
way.  They  were  Americans,  certainly;  and  then  Rosy 
thought  how  unfortunate  it  must  be  for  those  families 
whose  sympathies  were  necessarily  divided  more  or  less. 
She  came  to  the  conclusion  that  one's  childhood  de- 
termines most  things,  and  that  it  is  unfair  to  judge 
persons  without  first  reflecting  on  what  their  childhood 
has  been. 

.  .  .  She  did  see  Jacob  Feld,  after  all.  A  little  be- 
yond his  house  she  came  to  a  depression  where  a  great 
wedge  had  been  worn  out  of  the  mountainside.  The 
thin  end  of  the  wedge,  to  retain  the  metaphor,  was  the 
location  of  a  beautiful  spring  which  flowed  away 
down  the  mountain,  losing  itself  in  the  rocks.  It  was 
called  the  bench  spring;  and  it  was  here  that  visitors 
and  those  who  dwelt  permanently  on  the  bench  often 
stopped  to  drink.  The  spring  was  on  Jacob  Feld's 
land,  and  he  had  improved  it  in  many  ways,  erecting  a 
rustic  shelter,  and  constructing  a  stone  wall  which 
surrounded  the  bubbling  water.  He  had  also  bricked 
in  a  sort  of  court  and  placed  in  it  hickory  seats,  which 
he  had  made  himself,  where  one  could  rest.  And  he 
had  trimmed  the  trees — not  too  much,  but  so  that  they 
should  not  look  forlorn  and  neglected.  There  was  a 
wilderness  of  trees  all  about  the  spring,  some  of  them 


62  ROSY 

being  quite  patriarchal.  To  one  of  them,  near  the  spring, 
Feld  had  fixed  a  tiny  box  in  the  hope  that  the  wrens 
would  come  and  build  in  it — though  they  had  never 
done  so  as  yet. 

All  this  work  ihad  been  done  largely  for  the  public 
benefit — to  comfort  men  and  women  whom,  in  most 
cases,  he  could  never  know;  and  he  took  a  pride  in  it, 
and  went  away  when  strangers  came,  so  that  they  might 
be  alone  if  they  wished  to  be.  Indeed,  old  Jacob  Feld, 
working  at  his  spring,  was  one  of  the  pleasing  pictures 
that  visitors  might  be  expected  to  see  and  admire  as 
they  passed  along  the  bench  on  their  way  to  the  sum- 
mit— which  they  reached  by  a  curving  road  farther 
around  the  mountain.  It  is  certain  that  the  sight  of 
him  had  started  many  a  pleasant  revery  in  strangers' 
minds  touching  the  sources  of  comfort  of  this  gentle- 
appearing  old  man  who,  while  others  strove  feverishly 
in  the  direction  of  high,  nebulous  destinies,  placidly 
mended  his  spring  and  kept  its  waters  fresh  and  sweet. 

Rosy  checked  her  horse  and  called  to  him  pleasantly: 
"Good  morning,  Mr.  Feld!" 

He  straightened  up  and  looked  up  to  the  road,  a  bit 
startled.  "Oh,  it's  you,  Rosy!"  he  exclaimed.  A  kind 
of  introspective  and  wounded  look  faded  from  his  face 
as  if  a  friendly  hand  had  smoothed  it  out.  He  looked 
at  her,  smiling.  "Will  you  have  a  drink,  Rosy?"  he 
asked.  In  secret  he  was  vastly  proud  of  his  spring. 
Without  waiting  for  her  reply  he  took  a  cup,  which  he 
had  skilfully  fashioned  from  a  can  and  which  hung  on  a 
peg  driven  into  a  tree,  and  dipped  it  into  the  spring. 
He  went  trudging  toward  her,  looking  anxiously  at  the 
cup  to  see  that  too  much  of  the  water  did  not  spill — 
like  a  child,  she  thought. 

"It's  kind  of  you,"  said  Rosy,  waiting  for  him.  "I 
always  get  a  drink  from  the  spring  when  I'm  afoot. 
When  I  can't  find  the  cup,  I  bend  over  and  drink  out  of 


ROSY  63 

the  spring,  and  get  my  chin  and  nose  wet.  I  love  to 
drink  that  way."  She  smiled  and  took  the  cup  from  his 
hands,  and  bent  forward  so  that  she  might  drink  with- 
out wetting  her  dress. 

"Yes,  the  cup  is  gone  sometimes,"  said  Feld.  "The 
boys  like  to  hide  it."  He  said  this  without  rancor,  as 
if  he  were  speaking  of  what  the  squirrels  or  the  birds 
did;  and  Rosy  wondered  how  he  could  help  feeling 
angry  with  the  boys,  who  often  came  and  stole  his  cup 
away. 

She  could  see  that  he  wished  to  talk  to  her,  though 
it  did  not  seem  that  he  had  anything  important  to  say. 
"I've  been  hoping  the  wrens  would  come  and  build  in 
the  house  I  made  them,"  he  said,  pointing.  "But  now 
another  spring  has  gone  and  they  haven't  come  yet." 

When  Rosy  did  not  reply  to  this  beyond  a  murmur, 
he  said,  after  an  interval  of  silence:  "You'll  keep  a 
sharp  eye  on  the  road  going  down?  You  know  the 
storm  left  it  bad  in  places — blowing  the  trees  down, 
you  remember." 

She  replied  yes,  she  would  be  careful.  But  she  was 
convinced  that  there  were  few  obstacles  anywhere 
which  her  horse  would  have  been  unable  to  surmount. 
It  was  her  belief  that  the  faithful,  stubborn  creature 
could  do  anything  short  of  climbing  a  tree. 

Then  another  silence  fell,  but  she  did  not  move  on. 
Silences  are  an  important  part  in  the  communications 
of  isolated  persons.  She  had  an  idea,  in  fact,  that  he 
was  trying  to  approach  some  difficult  topic,  and  she 
wished  to  give  him  time  to  do  this  in  his  own  way. 

He  came  to  it  now.  "I  guess  nobody  ever  heard  a 
word  of  Zeb  Nanny,"  he  remarked. 

Rosy  manipulated  one  of  the  reins  across  the  horse's 
flank  so  that  a  great  green  fly  went  buzzing  angrily 
away  in  a  circle.  "None  of  the  neighbors  has  men- 
tioned him  to  me,"  she  said. 


64  ROSY 

He  regarded  her  dubiously.  "Did  you  know  his 
horse  came  up  the  mountain  the  night  of  the  storm?" 
he  asked.  He  went  on:  "It  did.  It  was  found  farther 
around  the  bench  the  next  morning,  in  the  stable  where 
it  was  bred.  He  might  have  got  lost  in  the  dark,  you 
know,  and  got  killed." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  she  asked.  She  looked  carefully 
to  see  if  the  green  fly  had  come  back. 

He  continued:  "Zeb  ...  he  wouldn't  be  likely  to 
run  away  from  anything.  You  don't  think  he  would, 
do  you?  He  gave  them  his  word.  He  meant  to  go 
back,  I  bet  you !  On  such  a  night — that  is,  if  he  rode 
up  the  mountain — something  might  have  happened  to 
him."  He  lowered  his  voice  and  added:  "I've  looked 
about  a  good  bit — down  on  the  slopes.  I  thought  I 
might  find  him.  But  there's  so  many  places  among 
the  rocks  where  you  can't  get."  He  sighed  and  added 
more  cheerfully:  "Maybe  nothing  happened  to  him." 

"That's  what  Seth  Hammond  thinks,"  said  Rosy. 
She  said  nothing  as  to  her  own  belief;  but  as  she  handed 
the  cup  back  to  the  old  man,  she  surprised  him  con- 
siderably by  saying:  "I  think  you're  a  good  man,  Mr. 
Feld."  Her  eyes  were  wonderful  just  at  that  moment. 

"Some  more?"  he  asked,  holding  the  cup  up. 

She  shook  her  head.  But  as  she  lifted  the  reins,  so 
that  the  horse  would  start  again,  she  glanced  after  the 
retreating  figure  with  a  new  interest,  a  new  intentness. 
He  was  going  back  to  the  spring  again,  walking  with 
care  over  the  uneven  rocks. 

She  did  not  know  that  Feld  looked  after  her  pres- 
ently, murmuring:  "Poor  child !"  Nor  did  Feld  realize 
how  compassionately  Rosy  had  felt  in  her  heart  toward 
him.  But  no  doubt  both  of  them  felt  uplifted  because 
of  that  encounter  at  the  spring. 


CHAPTER  VH 

ROSY  was  on  her  way  to  visit  Zeb  Nanny's  father — to 
convey  to  him  certain  information  which  had  been  set 
forth  in  Zeb's  letter  to  her. 

She  had  not  told  Jabob  Feld  of  her  intention;  she 
meant  to  tell  no  one,  if  she  should  encounter  any  one 
she  knew  on  the  way.  On  the  contrary,  she  hoped  no 
one  would  see  her  and  that  she  might  complete  her 
mission  without  attracting  attention. 

She  could  very  easily  believe  that  Robert  Nanny 
might  be  suffering  a  new  kind  and  degree  of  humiliation 
just  now.  He  was  the  sort  of  man  whose  chief  asset 
was  the  knowledge  that  men  trusted  him.  That  was 
the  heritage  he  would  have  wished  to  leave  his  son.  It 
was  easy  to  imagine  how  he  had  felt  when  the  warden 
of  the  penitentiary  had  permitted  his  son  to  go  free 
for  a  limited  time,  trusting  in  his  word.  He  would  not 
attribute  this  action  to  a  kind  of  capriciousness  or  a 
love  of  publicity.  He  would  feel  sure  that  the  warden 
had  recognized  in  Zeb  a  man  incapable  of  the  meanness 
of  lying  or  bad  faith.  And  now  to  have  to  reflect  that 
Zeb  had  not  gone  back,  after  all !  She  could  imagine 
how  he  must  have  spent  long  hours  wondering  what  had 
induced  his  son  to  betray  a  trust,  and  worrying  because 
he  could  not  even  guess  what  had  become  of  him. 

She  felt  sure  that  Zeb  would  not  have  written  to  his 
father.  He  would  know  that  letters  received  by  Robert 
Nanny  just  now  would  be  viewed  with  suspicion — that 
they  might  even  be  intercepted  and  opened. 

6s 


66  ROSY 

«She  believed  that  she  could  justify  Zeb's  conduct  to 
his  father — to  a  large  extent,  at  least.  She  could  submit 
the  proof  that  Zeb  had  meant  to  go  back — that  he  had 
had  no  thought  of  doing  anything  else.  She  even  hoped 
that  she  might  suggest  a  certain  logic  or  plausibility  in 
the  decision  at  which  he  had  arrived;  that,  since  he  was 
prevented  from  returning  at  the  time  named  in  his 
promise,  it  was  not  a  dishonorable  thing  to  refuse  to 
return  at  all,  as  long  as  the  performance  of  what  seemed 
a  higher  duty  lay  within  his  reach.  And  there  were 
other  things  which  she  meant  to  suggest  to  Zeb's  father. 

.  .  .  She  came  to  where  the  bench  road  turned  al- 
most at  right  angles  and  began  the  descent  of  the  moun- 
tain; and  she  tightened  the  reins,  though  she  knew  the 
horse  would  lean  back  and  thrust  his  legs  out  warily, 
now  that  the  steep  incline  was  reached.  How  many 
hundreds  of  tunes  the  faithful  creature  had  traversed 
that  course,  in  fair  weather  and  foul ! 

She  drifted  into  a  mood  of  sombre  revery  for  half  an 
hour  or  more,  while  the  wheels  of  her  carriage  ground 
their  way  monotonously  over  the  stones.  She  scarcely 
saw  familiar  landmarks  as  she  passed  them.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  life,  which  had  always  been  without  very 
great  responsibilities  for  her,  even  after  the  death  of 
her  parents,  had  completely  changed,  and  that  she  must 
never  expect  to  be  care-free  and  light-hearted  again. 
Yet  she  felt  a  new  interest  in  existence,  too;  and  she 
had  an  idea  that  when  she  became  accustomed  to  the 
new  state  of  affairs  she  might  get  more  out  of  life  than 
she  had  ever  done  before.  A  challenge  had  been  flung 
at  her,  and  she  had  taken  it  up  without  thinking — and 
now  she  knew  that  life  had  given  her  a  battle  to  fight. 

She  was  aroused  from  her  revery  by  a  movement  in 
the  road  before  her.  She  saw — first  as  in  a  dream — 
an  object  far  down  the  slope;  an  object  which  seemed 


ROSY  67 

to  be  approaching  her.  She  aroused  herself  and  peered 
across  the  intervening  space,  obscured  by  turnings  and 
foliage.  And  presently  she  knew  that  there  was  a 
carriage  moving  slowly  up  the  mountain. 

A  little  later  she  recognized — with  a  certain  appre- 
hension which  she  could  not  have  defined  very  clearly 
— the  occupant  of  the  carriage.  There  was  no  mistak- 
ing the  figure  of  Seth  Hammond,  the  sheriff.  No  one 
else  about  Pisgah  suggested  that  aspect  as  of  a  sort  of 
benevolent  pirate,  that  hint  of  lawless  escapades  tem- 
pered by  an  enveloping  charity. 

They  had  been  "Seth"  and  "Rosy"  to  each  other 
ever  since  Rosy  could  remember — true  friends.  Yet  she 
now  found  herself  swallowing  with  difficulty  and  glanc- 
ing uneasily  from  left  to  right,  as  if  she  would  have  wel- 
comed a  by-road  and  a  means  of  escape.  For  above  and 
beyond  all  considerations  of  friendship,  Hammond  was 
a  man  who  believed  in  doing  his  duty.  Yet  she  ad- 
dressed herself  angrily  in  these  words:  "What's  the 
matter  with  you,  anyway?"  And  she  began  to  assume 
a  lightly  careless  air,  though  Hammond  was  still  far 
away  from  her. 

It  occurred  to  her  that  the  sheriff  must  have  changed 
his  mind,  and  that  he  was  searching  Moab  for  Zeb 
Nanny,  after  all. 

She  came  presently  to  a  point  where  the  road  broad- 
ened; a  point  at  which,  by  immemorial  custom,  drivers 
paused  whenever  other  travellers  were  about  to  be  en- 
countered, so  that  the  passing  might  be  effected  with- 
out embarrassment.  But  though  she  waited  patiently, 
Hammond  did  not  appear  around  the  shoulder  of  the 
mountain  just  ahead.  Moreover,  she  realized  that 
though  she  ought  to  be  able  to  hear  the  sound  of  his 
carriage-wheels,  the  silence  of  the  windless  Sunday 
morning  was  unbroken. 


68  ROSY 

She  continued  to  wait,  her  impatience  and  uneasi- 
ness growing  steadily;  and  at  length  she  concluded  that 
Hammond  had  seen  her  and  that  he,  like  herself,  had 
stopped — with  the  thought  that  the  passing  should  be 
effected  a  little  farther  down  the  mountain,  where  an- 
other broad  stretch  of  road  occurred. 

She  moved  forward  hastily,  lest  Hammond,  too,  might 
change  his  mind  about  waiting.  And  rounding  the 
curve  before  her,  she  came  upon  his  horse  and  carriage 
drawn  up  at  the  side  of  the  road.  But  Hammond  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen.  The  horse  was  nibbling  at  an  over- 
hanging bough  and  the  carriage  was  empty.  , 

She  located  him  presently.  He  had  left  the  road  and 
was  climbing  warily  over  the  rocks,  down  the  mountain 
slope.  He  was  making  a  search — his  actions  were  un- 
mistakable. And  Rosy  drove  on,  almost  fearful  of 
looking  down  toward  the  sheriff,  lest  he  glance  up  and 
see  her  and  read  certain  thoughts  which  were  in  her 
mind.  She  felt  great  relief  when  she  was  well  on  her 
way — beyond  his  range  of  vision,  now.  She  thought  it 
quite  likely  that  she  should  hear  him  calling  after  her. 
But  again  she  mused  angrily:  "What's  the  matter  with 
you,  Rosy  Woodridge?"  And  then,  little  by  little,  she 
forgot  about  Hammond.  Her  thoughts  began  to  be 
centred  wholly  upon  the  mission  upon  which  she  was 
going. 

A  little  later  her  horse  began  to  trot  easily,  with  re- 
laxed muscles,  and  she  thought:  "So  soon?"  She  knew 
that  the  horse  never  trotted  in  this  way  until  he  reached 
the  last  descent,  where  the  way  merged  itself  into  the 
valley  road  and  there  was  no  longer  any  need  of 
holding  back.  There  were  homesteads  on  either  side 
of  her  now;  primitive  dwellings,  with  a  cow  or  two 
and  a  horse  and  poultry  in  the  yards,  and  wells,  and 
always  a  dog  which  dashed  at  the  fence  barking  and 


ROSY  69 

then  returned  triumphantly  to  its  place  on  the  front 
porch. 

She  had  to  exert  her  authority  over  the  horse  a  little 
farther  on.  The  aged  creature  was  bent  upon  going  on 
into  Pisgah,  which  was  now  only  a  mile  or  so  away. 
But  it  was  not  her  intention  to  go  to  Pisgah,  and  she 
turned  off  upon  a  branch  road  which  bore  away  through 
the  valley,  toward  the  river. 

She  was  entering  a  new  world  now.  The  river-bot- 
toms were  ahead  of  her;  the  mountain  towered  above 
her,  cloud-crested  and  with  faint,  opaline  vapors  up 
in  the  hollows.  The  temperature  had  changed,  too.  It 
was  a  good  deal  warmer  and  close  and  oppressive.  The 
cultivated  tracts  were  becoming  larger.  Around  the 
shoulder  of  the  mountain,  up  the  river,  she  caught  dis- 
tant vistas  of  really  immense  plantations  where  hun- 
dreds and  even  thousands  of  bales  of  cotton  were  pro- 
duced every  year. 

Greatly  to  her  relief,  she  encountered  no  one;  though 
over  toward  the  river,  half  a  mile  away,  she  caught 
glimpses  of  vehicles  passing,  their  tops  showing  over 
fences  and  hedges.  She  knew  that  certain  families  of 
the  bottoms  were  on  their  way  to  attend  church  in 
Pisgah.  And  suddenly  it  seemed  strange  to  her  that 
people  should  continue  to  go  to  church  and  sing  the 
same  old  songs  in  raucous  voices  and  feel  meanly  self- 
conscious,  just  as  if  the  old  world  were  not  coming  to 
an  end  and  a  new  world  quivering  to  be  born. 

The  branch  road  she  had  taken  circled  the  mountain, 
not  very  far  from  its  base.  It  had  been  built  by  the 
mountain  folk  who  had  occasional  need  of  journeying 
from  various  points  at  the  base  of  the  mountain,  and 
on  its  lesser  slopes,  into  Pisgah.  And  less  than  half  an 
hour's  farther  drive  brought  her  to  the  small  farm  of 
Robert  Nanny. 


70  ROSY 

It  lay  to  her  right,  between  the  branch  road  and  the 
river;  but  just  at  this  point  the  region  was  uneven  and 
rather  high,  and  Nanny  had  bought  his  tract  for  very 
little,  because  the  ground  was  thought  not  to  be  produc- 
tive. Indeed,  it  was  he  who  had  made  it  so.  But  he 
had  done  his  work  so  well  that  there  were  now  no  richer 
acres  in  the  whole  county.  He  had  for  nearest  neighbor 
old  Tom  Lott,  a  retired  merchant  who  was  not  de- 
pendent upon  his  land  for  a  living,  who  dwelt  on  a 
pine-crowned  knoll  in  the  shadow  of  the  mountain, 
with  the  placid  river  running  in  the  distance  in  plain 
view  of  his  front  veranda.  And  it  was  because  Lott 
had  looked  covetously  upon  Nanny's  fertile  land  that 
Rosy  Woodridge  now  had  occasion  to  visit  Nanny's 
house. 

As  she  neared  the  gate  she  thought  of  the  outrageous 
wrong  that  had  been  done  to  Nanny,  and  she  hoped 
she  should  not  see  old  Lott.  It  would  be  better,  she 
thought,  for  her  not  to  be  seen  by  any  one  while  she 
was  on  her  secret  mission.  But,  apart  from  considera- 
tion of  her  safety  and  of  prudence,  she  knew  that  if 
she  should  encounter  Lott  she  should  be  tempted  to 
stop  and  call  him  an  old  thief  and  express  her  opinion 
of  him  generally — which  might  only  make  a  bad  matter 
worse. 

However,  she  did  see  him.  By  ill  chance  he  was 
emerging  from  his  own  gate  as  Rosy  drew  near  to  Nan- 
ny's gate,  and  he  stopped  in  the  road  and  looked  after 
her;  admiring  her  blooming  beauty,  perhaps,  and  chuck- 
ling at  the  haughty  carriage  of  her  head.  And  he  con- 
tinued to  look  after  her — though  with  a  changed  ex- 
pression— when  she  turned  in  at  Nanny's  gate.  He  knew 
her  in  what  is  called  a  general  way;  and  perhaps  he  was 
suspicious  of  all  who  called  on  Robert  Nanny  during  these 
days.  Indeed,  there  were  few  who  visited  Zeb's  father 


ROSY  71 

or  were  visited  by  him.  And  as  for  Rosy  Woodridge, 
Lott  had  never  known  of  her  calling  at  the  Nannys' 
before. 

She  was  looking  at  the  house  and  around  toward  the 
back  yard  in  search  of  Nanny  as  she  climbed  from  her 
buggy.  The  horse  needed  no  tying.  She  advanced 
uncertainly,  trying  to  forget  that  she  had  encountered 
Tom  Lott.  She  did  not  know  how  Robert  Nanny  would 
receive  her  just  at  first.  She  had  heard  it  said  that  he 
was  a  rather  strange  man  and  she  could  not  remember 
ever  having  spoken  to  him.  Almost  certainly  he  would 
not  know  her — not  at  least  until  she  had  explained  that 
she  was  Sam  Woodridge's  daughter.  And  the  serious- 
ness of  her  mission  dismayed  her  for  a  moment. 

He  was  nowhere  about,  seemingly.  The  quietude  of 
a  perfect  Sunday  morning  was  about  the  place.  Not 
even  a  dog  appeared  to  repel  or  welcome  her.  She 
followed  a  neatly  laid  out  path  around  the  house  to  a 
well  in  the  side  yard.  She  could  see  every  part  of  the 
barnyard  now.  But  the  premises  seemed  entirely  de- 
serted. 

And  then  she  caught  sight  of  him,  standing  near  a 
fence,  motionless,  his  head  a  little  bowed.  She  thought 
he  might  be  looking  at  the  hens  over  on  the  other  side 
of  the  fence,  dusting  in  the  shade  of  a  pear-tree.  But 
as  she  drew  nearer  to  him  she  knew  that  he  was  not 
looking  at  anything  at  all. 

She  paused  in  uncertainty  and  then  she  seemed  to 
come  to  a  decision. 

"Mr.  Nanny!"  she  called. 

Her  heart  smote  her  as  he  turned  about;  he  looked  so 
sadly  troubled,  and  her  voice  had  startled  him.  She 
thought  how  like  his  son  he  was — like,  and  yet  unlike. 
He  had  the  same  defiant  way  of  standing — now  that 
he  had  been  aroused — and  the  same  splendid  strength. 


72  ROSY 

Yet  subduing  influences  had  been  at  work  during  long 
years,  and  he  seemed  more  placid  than  his  son,  more 
deliberate.  His  eyes  were  very  like  Zeb's — save  that 
the  fire  in  them  had  burned  to  a  steady  glow  and  did 
not  leap  and  dance  any  longer. 

He  seemed  to  be  trying  to  place  her  as  he  slowly  ad- 
vanced. 

"I  don't  think  you  know  me,  Mr.  Nanny,"  she  said, 
smiling.  "Rosy  Woodridge?  I'm  a  friend  of — of 
Zeb's."  She  extended  her  hand  quickly.  She  did  not 
wish  to  leave  an  instant  of  time  during  which  he  might 
suppose  that  she  was  not  proud  of  her  friendship  for  Zeb. 

"Of  Zeb's?  Yes,  of  course,"  he  said.  His  eyes 
smiled  faintly,  and  she  found  herself  wondering  if  Zeb 
would  be  as  good-looking  as  his  father  when  he  was 
as  old. 

"Will  you  come  in?"  he  asked,  moving  toward  the 
house.  He  added  something  apologetic  about  the  un- 
readiness of  his  house  for  the  reception  of  a  young  lady. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  want  to  go  into  the  house.  I've 
something  important  to  say  to  you." 

He  looked  into  her  eyes  again  as  he  stood  aside  for 
her  to  enter  the  door.  Perhaps  he  thought  that  no  one 
could  wish  to  speak  to  him  privately  unless  with  the 
intention  of  referring  to  Zeb's  conduct.  And  she  mar- 
velled that  the  expression  of  dull  pain  should  have  re- 
turned to  his  face  so  quickly — as  if  the  pleasure  on  it  a 
moment  ago  had  been  a  kind  of  mask  which  he  could 
put  on  at  will.  She  wondered  if  all  persons  who  had 
reached  the  age  of  Zeb's  father  could  put  on  masks  in 
that  way. 

"I  want  to  be  sure  we're  quite  alone,"  she  added, 
looking  about  her  alertly  as  they  crossed  the  threshold. 
"It  wouldn't  do  for  any  one  to  hear  what  I  have  to 
say." 


ROSY  73 

"There's  nobody  about,"  he  assured  her,  but  she 
was  glad  that  he  took  the  precaution  of  closing  the 
door  through  which  they  had  entered. 

They  emerged  from  the  house  half  an  hour  later — 
coming  out  by  the  front  way.  They  seemed  to  have 
become  quite  intimate  during  their  brief  visit  together. 
Nanny,  especially,  had  undergone  a  remarkable  change. 
He  held  his  head  high  and  talked  happily — almost  gayly. 
Years  seemed  to  have  slipped  from  him.  He  helped  her 
into  the  carriage  and  examined  the  harness  carefully 
to  be  sure  that  every  part  was  in  its  right  place.  Even 
a  slight  mishap  during  the  long  mountain  drive  might 
prove  to  be  a  serious  matter.  And  then,  although  he 
had  shaken  hands  with  her  upon  emerging  from  the 
house,  he  held  out  his  hand  again. 

"And — you'll  not  go  back  on  him?"  he  asked,  look- 
ing at  her  with  beaming  eyes. 

"I'll  not,"  declared  Rosy.  She  straightened  the  reins 
and  looked  to  be  sure  that  she  had  room  to  turn  around. 
She  looked  back  over  her  shoulder  as  she  drove  away. 
"I'll  not!"  she  repeated  emphatically.  She  felt  that 
she  had  done  a  very  good  day's  work.  And  then  she 
looked  up  at  the  sun  to  determine  how  long  it  was  to 
noon.  She  felt  that  she  ought  not  to  be  absent  from 
home  any  longer  than  was  necessary. 

She  would  not  look  in  the  direction  of  Lott's  house  as 
she  drove  away;  and  in  any  case  she  would  not  have 
been  able  to  see  old  Lott,  who  had  gone  back  into  his 
house  and  who  stood  carefully  concealed  behind  a  cur- 
tain, staring  intently  after  her  and  then  at  the  retreat- 
ing figure  of  Robert  Nanny. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SHE  drove  in  shadow  all  the  way  up  the  mountain 
and  to  her  very  door.  Always  the  summit  of  the  moun- 
tain rose  between  her  and  the  sun.  Yet  it  was  still 
early  in  the  afternoon  when  she  drove  into  the  barn- 
yard adjoining  her  cabin.  She  removed  the  harness 
from  the  horse  and  watched  the  unhurried  creature 
move  with  a  kind  of  automatic  placidity  toward  the 
water-trough — and  then  turn  and  look  at  her  blankly 
as  if  it  were  saying:  "There's  none  here !"  She  charged 
herself  with  the  duty  of  bringing  water  for  the  horse 
soon,  and  then  turned  toward  the  house. 

A  subtle  change  occurred  in  her  as  she  drew  near  the 
front  door.  Her  fingers  were  not  entirely  steady  as  she 
searched  for  the  key  which  she  had  put  in  her  pocket. 
She  listened  with  an  air  of  suspense  while  she  adjusted 
the  key  in  the  lock.  The  silence  beyond  that  locked 
door  seemed  to  her  a  little  surprising,  perhaps  dismay- 
ing. She  could  not  hear  a  sound. 

The  front  room  was  empty  when  she  entered  it.  She 
closed  the  door  behind  her  and  stood  still  for  an  in- 
stant. She  was  wondering:  "Is  he  up  in  the  attic,  or 
where  is  he?"  And  then  she  heard  him  coming  in 
from  the  small  lean-to  which  had  been  built  back  of  the 
main  room  of  the  cabin,  and  which  was  used  for  a  com- 
bination kitchen  and  dining-room. 

Minturn  appeared  in  the  doorway,  looking  at  her 
rather  resentfully.  "Where  in  the  world  have  you 
been,  Rosy?"  he  demanded. 

She  tried  to  smile — though  it  was  not  easy  to  smile 
into  his  petulant  eyes.  "I  went  for  a  drive,"  she  said. 

74 


ROSY  75 

"You  know  I  must  go  out  once  in  a  while.  I  met  a 
number  of  people:  Mr.  Feld  and — "  She  would  have 
mentioned  Seth  Hammond,  but  instinct  warned  her 
not  to  refer  to  the  sheriff.  "And  others,"  she  con- 
cluded. "It's  very  pleasant  out." 

"It's  not  at  all  pleasant  in"  he  retorted,  "waiting 
and  ^worrying." 

She  replied,  trying  to  speak  quite  gently:  "You 
mustn't  worry  too  much,  you  know." 

She  was  putting  her  hat  away;  and  when  she  turned 
to  see  why  he  did  not  reply,  he  was  smiling  rather  oddly, 
she  thought.  "It's  easy  to  give  advice  of  that  kind," 
he  said.  "Especially  for  you,  when  you've  got  noth- 
ing to  do  but  drive  about  all  day." 

She  looked  into  vacancy  for  a  moment;  her  mind  was 
in  a  condition  of  suspense.  Her  first  impulse  had  been 
to  make  an  angry  reply.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
that  she  had  cause  to  worry,  too — that  she  was  risking 
a  good  deal,  and  that  if  the  truth  were  known  it  would 
place  her  in  a  very  bad  light.  But  she  yielded  to  the 
woman's  instinct  to  be  gentle  with  the  man  who  was 
dependent  upon  her.  "You'll  not  have  to  worry,"  she 
said.  "We'll  have  to  think  of  ways  .  .  .  we'll  have 
to  get  out  of  the  house  sometimes — you  as  well  as  I. 
There's  no  telling  how  long  you'll  want  to  be  here,  you 
know."  She  seemed  to  ponder  deeply;  and  little  by 
little  the  furrows  forsook  her  face  and  her  eyes  beamed 
brightly.  She  had  thought  of  something  quite  wonder- 
ful they  might  do — that  very  evening.  But  she  did  not 
speak  to  him  just  then  of  what  was  in  her  mind.  She 
would  keep  it  as  a  surprise.  "We  must  have  something 
to  eat  now,"  she  said.  "Are  you  very  hungry?"  She 
moved  energetically  toward  the  lean-to,  looking  back 
over  her  shoulder  and  smiling. 

He  conquered  the  inclination  to  be  moody.    He  fol- 


76  R;OSY 

lowed  her  into  the  kitchen.  "You  know  I'm  to  help," 
he  said. 

That  was  ever  so  much  better.  "Yes,  you  may,"  she 
said.  "I'm  going  to  make  a  turnover — out  of  the  dried 
peaches  that  were  left  from  supper.  Do  you  like  turn- 
overs?" 

She  went  to  the  cupboard,  with  its  front  of  per- 
forated tin,  and  brought  the  dish  of  stewed  peaches, 
placing  it  on  the  work-table.  She  laughed  joyously. 
"I  almost  forgot  to  put  on  my  apron,"  she  said.  She 
took  an  apron  of  great  amplitude  from  the  wall  and 
fastened  it  about  her,  looking  at  him  in  that  luminous 
"way  which  characterizes  all  young  women  when  they 
are  concerned  with  any  part  of  their  wardrobe  and 
there  is  a  man  about.  While  she  tied  the  strings  behind 
her  she  said:  "The  chef  must  always  be  in  uniform. 
The  assistant  should  be,  too — only  you  haven't  one  that 
is  suitable."  She  moved  toward  the  cupboard  again, 
smiling  at  him  over  her  shoulder.  "Shall  I  make  you 
some  aprons?"  she  asked.  She  thought  she  had  a  very 
high  opinion  of  a  man  who  fitted  easily  into  the  scheme 
of  making  turnovers  and  pottering  about  in  a  kitchen. 
She  really  did  not  know  herself  very  well  as  yet.  She 
t  /  got  an  earthen  jar  from  the  cupboard,  and  the  flour- 
sifter.  "Let  me  see,"  she  reflected;  "I  think  your  part 
just  now  will  be  to  make  a  fire." 

He  had  seemed  disposed  to  watch  her,  to  follow  her 
every  movement  as  if  it  were  a  word  or  a  line  in  a 
poem,  perhaps  the  key  to  the  meaning  of  the  whole. 
But  now  he  made  a  great  show  of  interest  in  the  stove. 
The  stove  had  already  become  one  of  his  sources  of 
annoyance,  because  he  shrank  from  seeing  Rosy  go  out 
to  chop  wood  for  it,  despite  her  assurances  that  she  did 
not  mind  it  at  all.  Indeed,  even  in  her  father's  day 
she  had  chopped  wood,  even  felling  the  trees  and  trim- 


ROSY  77 

ming  them  and  cutting  the  trunk  into  lengths  for 
splitting.  She  had  the  handiness  of  a  boy.  But  to  him 
the  mere  fact  that  she  could  do  it  so  skilfully  was  the 
most  deplorable  circumstance  of  all. 

In  an  incredibly  short  time  she  was  asking  him  if  he 
had  got  the  oven  hot,  and  was  coming  toward  him  with 
the  turnover  in  her  hands.  There  were  little  beads  of 
sweat  on  her  forehead  and  nose.  She  put  finishing 
touches  on  the  fire  he  had  made,  as  if  he  had  not  done 
it  quite  right;  and  then  she  cleared  the  table  of  her 
work  materials  and  spread  a  cloth  and  laid  the  places 
with  plates  and  knives  and  forks. 

He  watched  her  with  unqualified  fondness  now.  He 
picked  up  one  of  the  steel  forks  with  its  handle  of  wood. 
"Some  day,  Rosy,"  he  said,  "we're  going  to  have  better 
things  than  these — you  and  I." 

She  did  not  seem  to  be  deeply  impressed  by  this — 
by  the  words  or  by  what  they  implied.  It  would  have 
seemed  that  they  had  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  before 
now  planning  their  future  and  reaching  mutual  under- 
standings. 

"I've  never  thought  I  needed  anything  better,"  she 
said  simply.  "Maybe  because  I've  never  known  any- 
thing better." 

He  put  the  fork  back  on  the  table.  "I'm  not  criticis- 
ing anything,"  he  said.  "But  there's  no  harm  in  re- 
membering that  I  mean  you  shall  have  things  better 
and  easier  when  I  ...  when  the  time  comes  that  I 
needn't  hide  any  more." 

She  did  not  like  to  speak  of  his  being  in  hiding.  She 
would  have  preferred  not  to  say  anything  at  all  about 
that  phase  of  their  situation.  She  changed  the  sub- 
ject. "There  are  the  drumsticks  and  the  thigh  of  the 
chicken  left  over  from  last  night.  I  could  warm  them 
up  for  you." 


78  ROSY 

"No,  don't,"  he  said.  "We  might  eat  them  to-night. 
I'm  not  very  hungry  now,  really.  The  turnover  will  be 
a  feast." 

They  drew  their  chairs  up  to  the  table,  and  Rosy  cut 
the  turnover  in  two,  sliding  half  of  it  onto  his  plate. 
She  poured  him  a  glass  of  milk  and  filled  her  own 
glass. 

She  drank  from  her  own  glass  of  milk  and  then  ate 
the  turnover,  handling  the  fork  quite  as  if  it  had  been 
of  the  finest  silver  and  most  delicate  workmanship. 
She  sighed  with  contentment  when  she  had  eaten  her 
part  of  the  turnover.  "It's  wonderful  how  little  it 
takes  to  make  you  happy,  isn't  it?"  she  remarked. 

Perhaps  she  had  not  noticed  that  he  had  been  trifling 
with  his  turnover,  as  if  eating  were  a  mere  formality. 
He  looked  at  her  with  the  ghost  of  a  smile  now.  "Is 
it? "he  asked. 

She  hung  up  her  apron  almost  excitedly.  She  had 
cleared  away  the  dinner  things.  "Now ! "  she  exclaimed. 
"Now  for  the  adventure!" 

He  regarded  her  ironically.  He  was  thinking  that 
she  must  be  even  a  simpler  creature  than  she  seemed — 
she  could  be  joyous  so  easily.  It  did  not  occur  to  him 
that  she  was  affecting  a  mood  which  she  did  not  wholly 
feel,  simply  because  he  was  her  guest  and  she  should 
have  thought  it  bad  manners  to  permit  him  to  be  un- 
happy. 

He  followed  her  to  the  back  door,  and  there  she  bade 
him  remain.  She  slipped  into  the  yard  warily  and 
looked  up  and  down  the  remote  bits  of  road  which  were 
visible  from  where  she  stood.  She  had  assumed  a 
playfully  mysterious  air,  as  if  it  were  a  game  they  were 
playing  and  not  a  serious  matter  which  engaged  them. 

"It's  all  right,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  scarcely  above  a 


ROSY  79 

whisper.  "You  are  to  follow  me.  But  you  must  hurry ! 
It  won't  do  for  us  to  be  seen." 

He  seemed  reluctant  to  emerge  from  the  hut;  but  she 
was  really  in  earnest  now.  She  was  slipping  along  a 
path  which  ran  straight  from  her  back  door  and  which 
seemed  to  end  in  empty  space.  He  followed  her  stealth- 
ily and  with  increasing  speed. 

Presently  she  waited  until  he  overtook  her.  "We're 
all  right  now,"  she  declared.  She  stood  looking  back 
over  the  way  they  had  come.  The  path  had  descended, 
and  only  the  top  of  the  hut  was  visible.  She  led  him 
to  a  level  shelf  covered  with  mosses  and  sparse  grass,  a 
spot  the  nature  of  which  he  did  not  at  all  take  in  at  first. 
He  did  not  instantly  comprehend  when  she  said,  with 
an  air  of  triumph:  "Isn't  it  fine?" 

And  then  he  drew  a  swift  breath.  They  seemed  to  be 
hanging  in  space.  The  nearest  visible  objects  before 
him  were  tree- tops,  thousands  of  feet  below  him;  yet 
these  seemed  near  and  distinct  when  compared  with  the 
one  dominating  object  in  the  scene:  the  river,  lying 
between  its  broad  sand-bars  and  its  clumps  of  willow 
and  cottonwood,  alternating  from  side  to  side  along  a 
length  of  a  score  of  miles.  It  all  constituted  a  wonder- 
ful panorama;  and  they  stood,  like  figures  in  a  Dore 
illustration,  looking  down  upon  it.  A  government 
steamer  was  making  its  way  down  the  river:  tiny,  al- 
most motionless,  as  if  it  were  some  sort  of  aquatic  bird 
at  rest. 

That  Rosy,  had  spent  much  time  upon  this  dizzy 
platform  in  days  past  was  evident.  She  seemed  to 
regard  it  as  a  sort  of  playhouse.  She  had  piled  flat 
rocks  for  seats.  She  became  a  delightful  hostess,  seek- 
ing to  make  her  guest  perfectly  at  home.  She  stood 
for  a  moment  so  near  the  verge,  and  seemed  so  little 
conscious  of  her  location,  that  he  put  forth  a  hand  and 


8o  ROSY 

drew  her  back  almost  roughly.  "Don't  stand  there!" 
he  exclaimed.  It  might  have  been  supposed  that  he 
was  angry. 

She  seemed  amazed.  "There's  no  danger,"  she  de- 
clared. She  added,  as  if  in  partial  justification  of  his 
action:  "Of  course  you  have  to  keep  your  eyes  open." 

She  sat  down  on  one  of  the  rough  stone  seats  and 
leaned  against  a  stunted  pine-tree  behind  her.  She  in- 
dicated that  he  was  to  follow  her  example;  and  after 
he  had  done  so  a  silence  fell  between  them — a  silence 
which  made  the  great  void  before  them  vocal  in  some 
indefinable  way,  and  which  made  the  soughing  of  the 
pine-trees  near  by  seem  very  loud. 

He  regarded  her  intently  while  she  looked  away  into 
space,  dreamily,  perhaps  a  little  sadly,  and  at  length  he 
said:  "You're  a  strange  girl,  Rosy — to  care  for  a  place 
like  this.  I  suppose  you've  come  here  sometimes 
alone?" 

She  nodded  without  looking  at  him. 

"And  you  haven't  been  afraid  the  whole  thing  might 
tumble  with  you?" 

"It's  been  here  thousands  of  years  without  tumbling. 
Why  should  it  do  it  now?  It'll  wait  another  thousand 
years  before  it  turns  loose,  and  then  we  shan't  care." 

From  where  he  sat  he  could  no  longer  see  the  tree- 
tops,  but  only  the  river  and  the  valleys  beyond — a 
shimmering  vista  across  vast  horizontal  spaces.  The 
feeling  of  uneasiness  for  her  passed  from  him;  par- 
ticularly as  she  no  longer  seemed  disposed  to  move 
about  as  if  she  had  wings  to  save  her  if  she  lost  her 
balance. 

"You  must  get  into  the  habit  of  coming  here  by 
yourself,  when  you  want  to  be  alone,"  she  said.  "You 
can  bring  your  book  and  read.  It  seems  terrible  to  be 
in  the  house  always.  Don't  you  think  so  ?  Especially 


ROSY  81 

when  you're  by  yourself.  And  you  know  I'll  have  to  be 
gone  sometimes.  I'll  have  to  go  on  living  just  as  I've 
always  done — so  people  won't  begin  to  talk.  It  wouldn't 
do  for  us  to  let  them  become  suspicious,  you  know." 

He  clasped  his  hands  about  his  knees  and  his  eyes 
were  lowered;  he  seemed  dissatisfied.  "I  think  we'll 
find  a  way  out  some  time,"  he  said.  "You've  nothing 
here  worth  staying  for,  Rosy.  My  idea  is  that  some 
day  we  can  go  away — a  great  distance,  you  know — 
where  neither  of  us  will  be  known.  So  that  we  can  live 
like  human  beings,  and  not  like  squirrels.  Of  course 
I'm  glad  to  have  a  place  to  hide  now — any  place.  But 
I  don't  expect  to  stay  here  long." 

She  seemed  to  ponder  this  darkly,  and  he  had  the 
conviction  that  she  was  weighing  him  unfavorably.  In 
fact,  she  was  just  beginning  to  realize  more  clearly 
than  at  any  other  time  that  she  must  prevail  upon  Nat 
to  remain  with  her,  a  secret  guest,  for  a  long  time — so 
that  Zeb  might  be  safe.  It  wouldn't  do  for  Nat  to  be 
discovered  now. 

She  assumed  a  sprightly  manner.  "You  can't  think 
what  hours  I've  spent  here  and  what  dreams  I've  had," 
she  said.  "I've  called  it  my  tower-room.  There's  an- 
other room — though,  of  course,  you  don't  know  about 
that.  Nobody  does.  A  wonderful  room — right  under- 
neath us." 

"Another  room?"  he  repeated  incredulously. 

"It's  a  secret;  all  mine,  since  father  died.  He  tried 
to  blast  a  well  once — father  did — in  the  side  yard.  He 
thought  it  was  too  far  bringing  water  from  Feld's 
spring.  And  he  bored  and  blasted,  and  bored  and 
blasted — the  longest  time.  And  what  do  you  think 
happened?" 

He  was  regarding  her  appraisingly.  He  sensed  some- 
thing of  duplicity  in  her  sprightly  mood. 


82  ROSY 

She  brought  out  the  climax  to  her  story  as  if  it  were 
deliciously  humorous:  "He  came  to  a  cave  I"  Her 
beaming  eyes  sought  his.  "A  great  cave!  It's  right 
under  us.  When  he'd  blasted  down  to  a  certain  depth 
he  came  to  a  hollow  place.  He  went  down  into  it.  It 
was  lighted.  Wouldn't  that  seem  strange,  don't  you 
think?  He  saw  right  away  where  the  light  came  from. 
The  cave  he  was  in  had  a  great  opening  in  the  side  of 
the  mountain.  He  could  see  the  sky  and  the  river  off 
yonder,  just  as  we  can  see  them  from  here.  He  stood 
looking  out  at  the  plains  and  the  river  through  the 
mouth  of  the  cave — as  if  he  were  seeing  a  bright  pic- 
ture in  a  dark  frame." 

Her  face  glowed  with  the  remembrance  of  that  secret 
cave,  in  which  no  one  had  ever  stood  save  her  father 
and  herself.  "He  never  told  anybody  about  that  cave 
— no  one  but  me.  He  thought  they'd  laugh  at  him  for 
taking  all  that  trouble,  drilling  and  blasting,  and  never 
getting  anything  for  it.  But  I  climbed  down  the  edges 
of  the  well  often — into  the  secret  cave.  It  isn't  deep — 
the  well  isn't.  When  you  stand  up  in  it  your  head  is 
even  with  the  ground.  The  opening  into  the  cave  is 
at  the  side.  You  take  a  step  down;  then  you're  in  the 
cave.  And  you  can  see  that  great  open  space  where 
the  sky  is — as  if  a  curtain  had  been  lifted.  There's  a 
ledge  at  the  outer  side,  a  ledge  just  like  this  one  we're 
on.  Only  the  one  down  there  has  a  kind  of  roof  over  it, 
so  that  you  wouldn't  get  wet  if  it  rained,  and  the  sun 
wouldn't  strike  you.  It's  warm  even  in  winter,  down 
there  in  the  secret  cave.  It's  still  and  mysterious — as 
if  you'd  stepped  off  the  earth  into  some  other  world. 
You've  no  idea  how  strange  you  can  feel  when  you're 
there  alone.  It  makes  me  laugh  to  think  of  it;  but  I 
remember  .  .  .  once  when  I  was  there  alone  it  came 
to  me  to  say  out  loud:  'I  am  Eve.  Where  are  you. 


ROSY  83 

Adam?'  It's  too  funny!  Sometimes  by  myself  there 
I  tried  to  picture  the  sort  of  Adam  I'd  like,  if  an  Adam 
should  come.  You  know  what  I  mean?  Having  him 
dark,  and  then  light;  or  tall  and  graceful,  or  shorter  and 
very  strong.  Sometimes  he  would  be  as  polite  as  any- 
thing; and  then  again  he  would  speak  with  a  voice  like 
thunder,  and  I'd  lie  down  before  him  and  say:  'Whip 
me,  Adam.'  But  I  never  could  decide  what  kind  of  one 
I  liked  best." 

She  meditated  in  silence  for  a  time,  while  he  tried  to 
comprehend  her.  And  presently  she  went  on:  "I 
wouldn't  tell  anybody  all  that  I  used  to  think  about  or 
do  down  in  that  cave.  It  used  to  end  in  my  running, 
almost  of  a-tremble,  and  climbing  up  in  the  well.  I 
don't  know  what  I  was  afraid  of.  Maybe  that  the 
wrong  Adam  would  catch  me." 

He  looked  at  her  wonderingly.  He  was  still  more 
greatly  perplexed  when  she  asked:  "Did  you  ever  think 
how  many  wrong  Adams  there  are?  And  wrong  Eves, 
too,  I  reckon." 

A  thought  came  to  him.  "I  suppose  there  was  a 
serpent  there?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head  dreamily.  "Never  a  serpent; 
sometimes  birds.  One  would  fly  in  and  chirp — a  little 
sound  in  a  great  stillness — and  then  fly  away."  Her 
eyes  became  dreamy.  They  sought  out  the  steamer 
away  over  on  the  river.  It  had  moved,  though  it 
seemed  impossible  to  detect  its  movement.  It  had 
slipped  into  a  region  of  shadows  in  a  quiet  bend,  where 
feathery  willows  were  duplicated  in  the  water.  She 
was  leaning  forward  a  little  wistfully;  she  seemed  a 
pathetic  figure  for  the  moment. 

Something  prompted  him  to  say:  "You  know,  Rosy, 
I've  never  asked  you  and  you've  never  promised  me  in 
so  many  words  to  be  my  wife.  We've  just  had  a  kind 


84  ROSY 

of  understanding  since  I  came  ...  but  it  is  under- 
stood, isn't  it?" 

She  turned  a  startled — almost  a  distressed — glance 
upon  him. 

"Of  course  it  is,"  he  added.  "The  way  you've  taken 
me  in  and  befriended  me — and  the  way  I've  always 
admired  you,  besides  ..." 

She  waited  for  him  to  go  on,  and  when  he  did  not  do 
so  she  turned  her  glance  away.  "You  mean,"  she  asked 
in  an  even  tone,  "I've  been  a  help  to  you,  and  you'd 
want  to  show  that  you  are  grateful  .  .  .?" 

"Of  course  I  would,  Rosy!" 

She  did  not  break  the  silence  which  followed.  She 
was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  shame — yet  she  did  not 
forget  that  her  situation  was  a  very  difficult  one. 

It  occurred  to  him  that  possibly  he  had  offended 
her,  and  her  stillness,  which  wrapped  her  in  a  kind  of 
forlornness,  touched  his  heart,  too.  He  moved  over 
toward  her  impetuously  and  would  have  put  his  arm 
about  her. 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  backed  away  from  him. 
"Don't  do  that,  Nat,"  she  implored  him.  She  con- 
tinued to  step  backward  slowly,  and  she  was  moving 
in  the  direction  of  bottomless  space. 

He  perceived  what  seemed  to  him  her  peril.  A 
startling  transformation  occurred  in  him.  His  muscles 
became  rigid,  his  face  quite  colorless. 

"Rosy — for  God's  sake  !  "  he  whispered. 

She  perceived  what  it  was  that  had  alarmed  him. 
She  looked  over  her  shoulder  almost  carelessly.  "There's 
no  danger!"  she  assured  him.  "I'm  nowhere  near  the 
edge." 

"Let's  get  away  from  here,"  he  said  shortly. 

They  went  toward  the  house  together.  Neither 
spoke,  but  Rosy  was  marvelling  greatly.  Did  he  love 


ROSY  85 

her — did  he  love  her  as  much  as  that — that  he  could 
almost  perish  of  fear  when  he  believed  she  was  in 
danger? 

Still,  she  did  not  forget  to  make  a  swift  survey  of  the 
road  as  they  approached  her  back  door — to  be  sure  that 
Minturn  should  not  be  seen.  And  as  they  entered 
the  house,  safe  again  from  prying  eyes,  she  found  her- 
self— somewhat  to  her  bewilderment,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed— thinking  of  something  which  had  no  relation  to 
Minturn. 

She  was  thinking:  "I  wonder  what  it  will  be  like  in 
France?  I  wonder  if  he  will  ever  come  back  again?" 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  Summit  Hotel  was  an  oasis  of  elegance  and  com- 
fort set  in  its  mountain  fastnesses,  like  a  feudal  castle 
surrounded  by  its  keeps  and  clans.  It  represented  a 
manner  of  life  wholly  foreign  to  the  people  of  the 
mountains  and  the  surrounding  valleys  and  even  of 
Pisgah.  It  was  in  effect  a  portable  urban  unit  which 

I  arrived  in  early  summer  and  departed  in  the  autumn, 
bringing  its  own  atmosphere  with  it  and  taking  it 
away.  It  was  a  place  of  genial  manners  and  contacts 
in  the  summer — and  a  deserted  place  of  silence  and 
bitter  winds  during  the  long  winter  months. 

The  hotel  had  its  ballroom  and  its  orchestra;  its 
brilliantly  lighted  dining-room,  immense  beyond  all 
mountain  conceptions  of  such  things;  its  broad  ver- 
andas overlooking  vistas  which  ended  only  in  those 
hazy  obscurities  marking  the  limits  of  human  vision. 
And  on  the  verandas  men  and  women  of  quite  elegant 
dress  spoke  a  language  which  was  all  but  unknown  to 
the  mountain  folk,  while  their  children  played  in  cor- 
ridors and  on  lawns  and  presented  pictures  of  a  child- 
hood which  no  mountain  man  or  woman  had  ever 
known — or  would  have  had  their  children  know.  For 
to  the  simple  mountain  mind  the  summer  life  of  the 
summit  savored  of  wickedness:  of  laxity,  of  special 
privileges,  of  a  disproportionate  and  selfish  share  of 
the  joys  of  life.  The  hotel  guests  were  thought  to  en- 
gage quite  frankly  in  light  if  not  forbidden  indulgences. 
Was  there  not  that  ballroom,  brilliantly  lighted  at  night, 
with  its  swarthy,  gibbering  fiddlers  who  played  until 
the  early  hours  of  morning?  Moreover,  there  were 

86 


ROSY  87 

dark  rumors  of  gambling  behind  closed  doors,  where 
large  fortunes  were  won  and  lost  at  a  single  sitting  by 
a  certain  class  of  guests:  lawyers  and  steamboat  cap- 
tains and  city  merchants. 

And  yet  the  bench  folk  and  those  farther  down  the 
mountain  were  wishful  of  being  charitable  toward  the 
men  and  women  of  the  hotel:  for  the  visitors  were  per- 
sons of  means,  and  prosperity  reigned  all  about  Moab 
when  the  hotel  was  open  and  all  its  rooms  were  oc- 
cupied. Moreover,  it  was  generally  believed  that  the 
wealthy  owners  of  private  cottages  up  on  the  broad 
plateau  which  crowned  the  mountain  would  have 
sought  comfort  and  diversion  elsewhere  during  the 
summer  months,  had  it  not  been  for  the  hospitality  and 
gayety  of  the  big  hotel.  The  people  of  the  private  cot- 
tages, like  those  of  the  hotel,  were  pleasant  birds  of 
passage. 

Perhaps,  too,  there  were  certain  of  the  native  families 
who  knew  that  the  hotel  exerted  an  educational  influence 
in  a  way,  in  that  it  gave  practical  demonstrations  in  the 
science  of  sanitation,  and  opened  its  doors  on  visitors' 
nights,  when  really  competent  pianists  and  violinists 
and  singers  from  St.  Louis  and  Chicago  and  else- 
where gave  recitals  consisting  of  tuneless  programmes: 
music  in  which  individuals  of  native  sense  could  recog- 
nize elegance  of  fabric,  even  if  they  found  the  patterns 
obscure. 

The  Powells — the  judge  and  his  wife — from  Little 
Rock  did  not  arrive  at  the  hotel  until  the  second  week 
in  August.  In  theory  the  judge  had  retired  from  the 
active  practice  of  his  profession  years  ago;  but  he  had 
never  been  able  to  resist  the  lure  of  a  beautifully  com- 
plicated legal  problem.  And  this  summer  he  had  back- 
slidden— to  employ  his  wife's  phrase — and  had  become 


88  ROSY 

involved  in  a  case  which  had  kept  him  in  Little  Rock 
until  the  summer  was  half  over.  He  had  urged  Mrs. 
Powell  to  desert  him  and  to  seek  the  comfort  of  the 
mountain;  but  this  she  had  refused  to  do.  She  had 
given  him  no  reason  for  her  decision;  but  she  had  seen 
that  the  judge  had  be°n  aging  rapidly  during  the  past 
year  or  two,  and  she  professed  to  be  fairly  comfortable 
at  home.  It  was  her  conviction  that  she  ought  not  to 
leave  him  alone. 

Their  arrival  at  the  hotel — indeed,  the  arrival  of  Mrs. 
Powell,  who  preceded  the  judge  by  seven  or  eight  hours 
— was  the  signal  for  increased  activities  throughout 
the  hostelry  and  an  anxious  testing  of  every  string  on 
the  instrument,  so  to  speak,  to  make  sure  that  it  was 
in  tune.  You  would  have  known  immediately,  if  you 
had  not  known  already,  that  the  Powells  were  persons 
of  importance. 

There  was  something  in  Mrs.  Powell's  manner  which 
justified  the  theory  that  the  old  South  was  not  merely 
the  lower  part  of  the  United  States,  but  that  in  a 
limited  social  sense,  at  least,  it  was  a  distinct  unit  in 
the  composition  of  the  Western  Hemisphere.  Her  dis- 
tinctive quality  was  the  feminine  counterpart  of  that 
quality  which  in  men  would  be  called  chivalry. 

She  was  at  once  a  woman  of  kindness  and  of  ele- 
gance, of  sense  and  of  sentiment.  In  her  own  house 
she  had  the  manner  of  a  somewhat  naive  yet  definitely 
intentioned  and  kindly  queen;  and  at  sixty- two  she  had 
never  ceased  to  treat  her  husband  as  if  he  were  a  kingly 
ambassador  sent  to  her  from  an  adjoining  kingdom. 
She  was  wise  in  domestic  lore:  but  she  was  wise  in  a 
beautiful  way.  To  her  the  storing  of  the  pantry  be- 
came a  sort  of  regal  duty.  She  knew  just  what  to  do  in 
case  of  aches  and  pains;  but  this  knowledge  she  employed 
not  as  a  gypsy  with  herbs  and  incantations,  but  as  a 


ROSY  89 

kind  of  benevolent  siren,  with  scientific  aids  and  a  sort 
of  lovely  ritual.  She  was  as  beautiful  at  sixty-two,  in 
a  way,  as  she  had  been  at  twenty-six.  She  was  in  love 
with  lovely  dresses,  just  as  she  had  been  when  she  was 
a  girl.  She  could  become  blissfully  happy  over  rib- 
bons; she  could  press  them  to  her  heart  and  sigh  with 
ecstasy.  A  black  dress  made  her  frown  delicately,  and 
with  a  kind  of  tremulous  perplexity. 

Her  own  garments  were  of  soft  tints,  unassertive  in 
themselves,  but  in  the  end  distinguishing.  Her  hair 
was  white,  but  in  texture  it  was  of  an  undiminished  vital- 
ity. She  was  still  slender,  yet  her  movements  were 
not  marred  by  that  rigorousness  which  is  characteristic 
of  many  slight,  elderly  women.  Her  skin  was  smooth 
and  soft  and  a  delicate  flush  still  played  in  her  cheeks. 
Her  eyes  were  of  a  soft  brown. 

She  spoke  slowly — even  in  stressful  moments — soften- 
ing the  hard  letters,  as  Southern  women  often  do.  Her 
way  of  asking  questions  imparted  to  her  manner  a  cer- 
tain charming  naivete:  yet  her  questions  were  always 
searchingly  pertinent.  She  seemed  to  assume  that 
every  man  she  met  was  a  gentleman,  and  she  spoke  to 
him  with  an  effect  of  complete  confidence  and  candor. 
During  moments  when  she  sat  in  silence,  with  a  cer- 
tain pondering  expression  in  her  eyes,  she  might  have 
been  thinking  of  reports  she  had  heard  that  there  are 
evil  persons  in  the  world.  You  would  never  have  in- 
ferred from  her  manner  or  her  words  that  she  had  ever 
encountered  any  evil  persons  or  that  she  really  believed 
in  their  existence. 

Doubtless  there  were  certain  things  in  her  mind 
sometimes  which  she  did  not  choose  to  discuss.  Even 
toward  her  husband,  after  more  than  forty  years  of 
married  life,  she  seemed  singularly  reticent  at  times. 
She  was  equally  punctilious  in  the  discharge  of  her 


90  ROSY 

social  obligations  and  in  the  care  of  her  husband's  linen. 
She  loved  flowers  and  grieved  to  have  them  cut  unless 
they  were  a  little  more  than  full  blown.  She  always 
had  many  flowers  at  home.  She  seemed  to  regard  them 
as  a  sort  of  delicate,  lesser  people.  It  was  her  idea  that 
the  yardman  should  look  after  their  bodies,  but  that 
she  should  be  the  curator  of  their  souls.  She  walked 
among  them  without  getting  soiled,  and  came  away 
from  them  with  her  eyes  harboring  subdued  hymns  of 
praise. 

She  was  always  industrious,  but  never  hurried.  She 
read  and  reread  George  Meredith's  books  as  a  woman 
of  an  earlier  period  might  have,  expended  her  leisure 
in  spinning  even  after  she  had  spun  sufficient  fabric  for 
all  her  needs :  as  if  it  were  a  decent  and  becoming  thing 
to  do.  It  was  her  belief  that  she  kept  up  with  the  new 
books,  too;  she  had  read  Maeterlinck's  "Blue  Bird,"  and 
j  liked  specially  to  turn  again  to  the  passages  devoted  to 
the  dog  in  that  inimitable  fantasy.  She  did  not  wish  to 
have  a  dog  of  her  own — another  dog,  she  would  have 
said.  There  had  been  one  years  ago,  a  collie;  and  it  had 
died  of  old  age  with  its  head  on  her  knee,  looking  at  her 
with  mute  questions  which  she  could  not  answer. 

.  .  .  The  same  suite  of  rooms  they  had  occupied  in 
former  summers  had  been  reserved  for  them;  and  when 
Mrs.  Powell  arrived  with  her  maid  shortly  before  noon 
she  had  proceeded  at  once  by  some  sort  of  magic  proc- 
ess to  soften  the  atmosphere  of  the  rooms.  She  had  had 
her  luncheon  brought  to  her.  She  kept  herself  in  se- 
clusion during  the  afternoon.  It  was  her  belief  that  one 
should  make  one's  appearance,  not  ostentatiously,  cer- 
tainly, but  with  a  certain  quiet  impressiveness;  and  it 
is  possible  that  she  believed  she  had  not  arrived  at  the 
hotel  in  a  complete  sense  until  the  judge  also  had 
arrived. 


ROSY  91 

She  had  put  aside  her  travelling  costume  for  a  gar- 
ment which  expressed  the  fact  that  she  was  taking  her 
ease  becomingly;  and  during  the  afternoon,  when  the 
maid  was  attracted  by  a  concert  by  the  string  band 
out  under  the  trees,  she  sat  by  a  window  which  faced 
infinite  spaces  of  sky — a  sky  which  rested  its  azure 
arch  upon  a  lovely,  hazy  valley,  bisected  by  a  river  like 
a  shining  silver  thread. 

She  was  not  idle.  She  produced  certain  materials 
and  began  to — knit. 

I  have  no  idea  why  that  word  should  bring  to  so 
many  minds  a  comic  image.  Do  we  all  associate  the 
practice  of  knitting  with  unlovely  spinsters  and  nasal 
speech  and  ungenerous  gossip?  Is  there  something  in- 
herently bucolic  about  knitting-needles?  Is  knitting 
fairly  to  be  smiled  at  as  a  "Yankee  trick"?  Should  we 
be  able  to  discern  something  finely  picturesque  in  the 
practice  of  knitting  if  it  could  be  described  in  words  of 
the  Romance  languages,  or  of  mediaeval  ages  ?  Why  is 
it  that  the  old  Flemish  and  Dutch  painters  could  show 
us  beautiful  maidens  at  their  spinning-wheels,  while  no 
American  artist  would  dare  venture  to  present  one  of 
our  own  girls  with  knitting-needles  in  her  hands? 

Mrs.  Powell  was  not  a  comic  figure  as  she  sat  by  the 
window  with  her  knitting  in  her  fine  hands.  She  was 
knitting  for  the  American  boys  in  the  trenches  in 
France,  and  she  was  beautifully  in  earnest. 

When  it  had  first  occurred  to  her  that  she  might 
help  a  little  by  knitting  she  had  considered  the  matter 
at  length  and  had  finally  said  to  the  judge:  ".  .  .  Mit- 
tens. I  shall  knit  mittens." 

Whereat  he  had  looked  at  her  and  smiled  delightedly 
— not  because  she  was  ridiculous,  but  because  she  was 
lovely.  And  he  had  said:  "Well,  now,  honey  .  .  . 
mittens.  ...  If  the  boys  have  to  pull  a  trigger  once 


92  ROSY 

in  a  while,  as  I  used  to  have  to  do,  they  would  have  to 
take  their  mittens  off,  and  they  might  lose  them. 
Hadn't  you  better  make  it  something  else?" 

She  had  considered  this  with  rapidly  dawning  com- 
prehension, and  then  she  had  asked:  "Wrist-bands?" 
She  had  pronounced  the  word  dubiously. 

He  had  pondered  the  matter.  "Why  not  socks?" 
he  asked  finally. 

She  seemed  suddenly  to  have  found  a  comfortable 
footing  in  a  precarious  place.  "Why,  of  course!"  she 
exclaimed,  her  problem  happily  solved. 

So  it  was  that  she  sat  by  her  window  knitting  a  sock. 

She  imparted  to  the  homely  task  a  spirit  of  wistful 
rapture,  a  subdued  and  surrendering  heroism — like  the 
Francesco,  of  Madame  Duse,  bearing  his  armor  and 
his  bolt  and  bow  to  the  doomed  Paola.  She  was  put- 
ting her  hand  forth  across  the  seas  to  men  on  a  field  of 
battle.  You  could  see  it.  When  she  lifted  her  hand 
on  high  to  release  a  new  length  of  yarn  she  was  as  beau- 
tiful as  a  fabled  prophetess,  standing  on  a  cloud  and 
sounding  a  silver  trumpet,  as  you  will  see  on  the  ceiling 
of  almost  any  theatre. 

...  It  was  borne  in  upon  her  that  the  music  out  un- 
der the  trees  had  ended  and  that  the  sun  was  getting 
low.  She  could  no  longer  see  the  vibrations  of  the 
heat  out  across  the  valley.  There  was  a  soft,  eager 
step  in  the  hall,  and  then  her  maid  entered  the  room. 

The  girl  had  softly  bright  eyes,  and  she  had  a  way  of 
affecting  a  somewhat  propitiatory  manner — as  if  her 
mistress  ought  to  be  a  petty  tyrant,  even  if  she  were 
not.  She  was  treated  precisely  like  a  daughter  by  Mrs. 
Powell.  She  went  into  the  adjoining  room  to  put  her 
hat  away,  and  from  the  other  room  she  called:  "You'll 
want  to  dress  now?"  And  she  said  something  about  the 
custom  of  the  Summit  Hotel  of  serving  dinner  at  an 


ROSY  93 

early  hour.  She  re-entered  the  room  presently,  with 
billows  of  shimmering  fabric  across  her  arm.  It  seemed 
to  have  been  decided  earlier  in  the  day  what  Mrs. 
Powell  was  to  wear  that  evening. 

Mrs.  Powell  was  at  dinner  when  the  judge  arrived. 
She  had  not  waited  for  him  because  it  was  impossible 
to  know  just  at  what  hour  he  would  come.  The  train 
which  stoppe'd  at  the  distant  junction  was  almost  never 
on  time,  and  the  service  between  Pisgah  and  the  moun- 
tain lacked  precision  in  the  matter  of  speed  and  schedule. 

The  head- waiter,  with  one  of.  those  inspirations  which 
occasionally  come  to  his  kind,  did  not  escort  the  judge 
to  Mrs.  Powell's  table  when  he  made  his  belated  ap- 
pearance: to  have  done  so  would  have  been  to  imply 
that  Mrs.  Powell  could  be  obscure.  The  head-waiter 
recognized  the  judge  instantly  and  made  known  the 
fact  in  his  own  fashion,  and  permitted  himself  to  make 
a  slight  indicative  gesture  with  his  hand  toward  Mrs. 
Powell's  end  of  the  dining-room.  And  then  he  watched, 
with  a  complete  change  of  manner,  to  see  that  the 
waiters  performed  their  duty  perfectly  when  the  judge 
reached  his  table. 

The  judge's  quality  was  fairly  indicated  by  the  man- 
ner in  which  he  went  into  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Powell. 
If  an  ill-bred  fellow  had  married  her — if  such  a  thing 
can  be  conceived  as  possible — it  is  certain  that  he  would 
never  have  ceased,  while  in  her  presence,  to  stand  on 
one  foot,  if  he  had  lived  with  her  for  half  a  century. 
He  approached  her  with  an  almost  boyish  eagerness, 
depositing  beside  her  plate  a  small  parcel  containing 
something  she  had  meant  to  bring  from  the  city,  but 
which  she  had  forgotten.  He  brought  a  brisk  atmos- 
phere with  him — a  sense  of  something  completed  and 
made  right. 


94  ROSY 

He  stood  beside  his  chair  just  an  instant  before  he 
sat  down,  looking  about  him,  without  seeming  wholly 
to  do  so,  to  see  who  occupied  the  near-by  tables.  One 
or  two  he  greeted  with  decided  informality,  as  for  ex- 
ample: "Hello,  Doc!";  this  to  a  good-looking  pro- 
fessional-appearing man  seated  with  a  party  of  ladies 
over  against  the  wall.  But  he  added  to  the  vocal 
greeting  a  wholly  punctilious  little  bow  which  was 
meant  to  include  the  ladies.  He  looked  at  the  "doc" 
with  a  swift  exchange  of  understanding,  and  then  con- 
veyed this  glance  on  to  another  table  where  a  solitary 
diner  was  regarding  him  with  a  smile.  His  glance 
seemed  more  significant  than  it  really  was,  perhaps — as 
if  between  himself  and  those  other  individuals  there 
was  a  mutual  memory  of  guilty  practices;  as  if  it  harked 
back  to  poker  tables  and  late  hours.  He  was  a  short 
and  heavy  man,  ruddy  and  grizzled,  and  with  an  eye 
which  left  off  being  genial  only  to  become  sharp  and 
determined.  And  now  that  he  had  completed  his  pre- 
liminary visual  sortie  of  the  entire  dining-room,  he 
came  wholly  to  rest,  so  to  speak,  at  his  own  table. 

Mrs.  Powell  was  ready  with  a  question.  She  had 
placed  the  little  parcel  in  her  lap,  so  that  she  should 
not  forget  it;  and  now  she  said,  as  she  looked  expect- 
antly at  the  judge:  "Did  you  see  her?" 

She  considered  the  blank  expression  on  his  face  for 
an  instant  and  then  she  went  on  with  fine  severity: 
"Judge,  do  you  know  why  we  came  to  Moab  this  sum- 
mer? What  particular  reason  we  had  for  coming  this 
year?" 

He  replied:  "I  came  because  you  did;  but  you  know 
I  never  pretend  to  know  why  you  do  things."  He 
spoke  slowly  to  the  waiter  and  then  he  turned  to  her 
expectantly  and  waited  for  her  to  explain  what  she 
meant. 


ROSY  95 

"I  mean,"  she  went  on,  "did  you  see  Rosy  Wood- 
ridge  on  your  way  up  the  mountain  ?  " 

He  exclaimed  "Oh!"  as  if  her  question  explained 
everything.  "No,  there  wasn't  a  chance,  it  seemed. 
The  Jehu  who  brought  me  was  in  a  hurry.  I  thought  of 
her,  you  may  be  sure;  but  there'll  be  plenty  of  time  to 
see  her." 

She  considered  this  and  finally  shook  her  head.  "I 
think  we'd  better  call  the  first  thing  in  the  morning," 
she  said. 

"Well,  we  can  do  that,"  he  replied.  But  something 
in  his  tone,  or  perhaps  in  his  face,  prompted  her  to  con- 
tinue  

"What  are  they — the  reservations?  Why  don't  you 
think  we  ought  to  see  her  the  first  thing,  and  have  every- 
thing settled  ?" 

He  remained  silent  for  a  moment  and  then  he  replied : 
"There's  something  about  Rosy.  .  .  .  Do  you  remem- 
ber the  squirrels  in  the  square  in  Memphis  ? — how  they 
used  to  vanish  if  you  approached  them,  and  how  they 
used  to  come  to  you  if  you  just  sat  and  waited  ? " 

Her  reply  was  emphatically  earnest  and  in  dissent. 
"But  you  know  Rosy  would  never  come  to  us  if  we 
didn't  ask  her  to,  and  have  it  definitely  understood. 
How  should  she  know  what  our  plans  are,  and  how  we 
feel  about  her?" 

He  said  musingly:   "The  poor  child!  .  .  ." 

She  broke  in  upon  his  revery.  "There  it  is  again. 
Do  you  suppose  she  considers  herself  a  child?  There's 
so  little  time  left  if  we  are  to  have  her.  It's  quite  prob- 
able that  she's  beginning  to  think  about  sweethearts, 
and  such  things.  Suppose  we  were  to  hear  that  she 
had  got  married? — to  some  mountaineer  who.  .  .  . 
What  I'm  thinking  is  that  the  dear  child  has  reached 
an  age  when  she  ought  to  have  nice  dresses,  and  go  to 


96  ROSY 

places,  and  see  things.  If  we're  ever  to  help  her,  now 
is  the  time." 

The  judge  was  frowning  with  perplexity.  "Well, 
honey,  yes  .  .  ."  he  said;  and  after  she  had  waited 
for  him  to  frame  his  thoughts  he  went  on:  "There  are 
other  worlds  than  ours,  you  know.  And  when  I  think 
of  what  she  is  now,  and  what  so  many  of  the  young  girls 
are  becoming  everywhere  .  .  .  you  know,  she's  just 
perfect.  Could  finer  dresses  make  her  more  beautiful  ?  " 

"They  could.  I  wish  I  had  the  chance  to  show 
you!"  " 

"And  as  for  seeing  things;  when  she's  our  age,  what 
do  you  suppose  she'll  remember  best  of  all?  Won't 
it  be  the  way  the  sun  comes  up  in  her  own  valleys,  and 
how  the  grapes  hang  on  the  mountainside — her  own 
mountain — burnished  by  the  frost?  Is  our  world  so 
fine  a  place  that  you'd  like  to  drive  any  one  forth  into 
it,  my  dear?" 

Her  glance  expressed  gentle  impatience,  entire  dis- 
approval. "Do  you  remember  how  her  mother  lived?" 
she  asked.  "And  died?" 

The  picture  came  back  to  him;  the  funeral  of  Sam 
Woodridge  and  his  wife,  which  he  had  come  up  from 
Little  Rock  to  attend.  He  remembered  how  he  had 
gone  back  to  Little  Rock  with  only  one  thought — that 
he  and  his  wife  must  do  something  for  Rosy.  The  judge 
and  Sam  Woodridge  had  been  boys  together  and,  though 
life  had  assigned  widely  varied  duties  to  each,  their 
friendship  had  never  been  broken.  There  had  been 
years  during  which  the  Powells  had  taken  a  cottage 
down  on  the  bench,  close  to  the  Woodridges;  and  the 
judge  had  known  Rosy  when  she  was  just  learning  to 
walk,  and  had  been  her  gravest  and  gayest  and  stanchest 
friend  through  all  the  years  of  her  life.  He  could  not 
bear  to  think  of  her  as  anything  different  from  what 


ROSY  97 

she  was;  and  yet  there  was  that  picture  of  her  mother, 
old  before  her  time,  and  impoverished,  and  overworked, 
and  dead  at  last  as  the  result  of  a  tragedy  which  need 
never  have  been.  The  mountain  was  not  beautiful  in 
all  its  aspects,  nor  was  it  always  kind. 

"I'm  sure  you're  right,  honey,"  he  said  at  length. 
"It  was  my  idea  that  we'd  see  a  good  deal  of  her  this 
summer,  and  bring  her  closer  to  us  a  little  at  a  time — • 
and  then  carry  her  back  to  town  with  us.  But  I'm 
willing  to  leave  it  all  to  you." 

They  went  out  to  one  of  the  verandas  after  dinner. 
They  were  glad  to  get  out  of  the  dining-room,  because 
they  wished  still  further  to  discuss  Rosy's  future,  and 
it  had  become  difficult  to  talk  inside,  after  the  swarthy 
musicians  had  made  their  appearance  in  a  balcony  over- 
head and  had  begun  to  play  popular  melodies. 

They  had  found  seats  on  the  veranda  and  had  be- 
come settled  when  the  judge's  eye,  roving  away  in  this 
direction  and  that,  settled  upon  a  highly  pleasing  pic- 
ture: a  young  girl  in  a  pink-and-white  lawn  dress  and 
slippers,  sitting  beside  a  small  wicker  table  sipping 
lemonade  through  a  straw.  She  had  placed  her  straw 
hat,  ornamented  with  lace  and  flowers,  on  the  bench 
beside  her,  and  the  breezes  were  playing  about  her  hair. 
She  was  perfectly  radiant:  her  eyes  had  drunk  of  joy 
until  they  were  full,  and  her  cheeks  were  glowing. 

The  judge  gave  a  second  glance,  and  a  third,  and 
then  he  got  to  his  feet  with  an  exclamation.  His  words 
were 

"Dad  burn  me  if  it  ain't  Rosy!" 


CHAPTER  X 

IT  was  rather  late  in  the  day  when  Rosy  had  decided 
that  she  ought  to  go  up  to  the  summit.  She  had  busi- 
ness on  the  summit,  business  of  a  simply  pastoral  kind. 
There  were  eggs  to  be  taken  up  to  the  hotel,  and  money 
to  be  made  by  the  sale  of  them.  But  she  also  craved 
the  pleasure  which  that  journey  always  gave  her.  And 
so  she  dressed  with  great  care  and  set  forth  with  an 
eager  heart. 

She  would  not  have  admitted  to  any  one  that  her 
life  was  not  filled  with  pleasures  to  the  brim.  Especially 
in  the  summertime.  In  the  summer  she  had  only  to 
step  to  her  door  at  almost  any  moment  of  the  day  to 
see  strangers  passing  along  the  bench  road;  and  if  she 
sometimes  looked  pensively  and  perhaps  a  little  en- 
viously at  girls  or  women  of  a  higher  plane  of  life  than 
that  on  which  she  dwelt,  who  shall  say  how  often  hi 
turn  she  was  regarded  lingeringly  by  those  whose  chief 
purpose  in  life  it  was  to  pursue  pleasure,  and  who  in 
consequence  found  it  a  fleeting  thing — or  who  never 
found  it  at  all? 

Of  course  she  was  happy — especially  now  that  she 
had  her  great  secret  to  guard.  What  woman  ever  found 
life  tedious  when  she  had  a  really  important  secret  to 
keep  or  to  give  away?  She  was  the  most  thoroughly 
satisfied  person — at  least  to  outward  seeming — along 
the  entire  row  of  bench-houses. 

She  carried  her  basket  of  eggs  with  a  skilful  swing 
of  her  arm — to  lessen  the  strain  on  her  muscles.  She 
knew  that  she  should  adopt  a  somewhat  different  gait 
when  she  reached  the  summit,  where  the  visitors  could 
see  her.  But  now  it  did  not  matter. 

98 


ROSY  99 

It  occurred  to  her  that  both  the  Springer  and  the 
Feld  places  seemed  rather  dreary  as  she  passed  them, 
and  she  reflected  upon  the  great  change  which  had  come 
over  nearly  all  the  mountain  households  of  late  months. 
The  process  of  drafting  men  for  the  army  had  been  going 
on;  and  everywhere  one  came  upon  houses  which  were 
unwontedly  quiet  because  one  of  their  sons — and  in 
some  instances  two  or  three — had  gone  away  to  the 
cantonments.  Charley  Feld  had  gone:  quietly,  if  per- 
haps not  reluctantly,  leaving  his  parents  and  sisters 
with  a  new  spirit  of  uncommunication  upon  them. 

And  Rosy  thought:  "Why  should  they  take  it  as  if 
it  were  a  misfortune?"  She  recalled  certain  letters 
which  had  come  from  boys  who  had  gone  forth  as  mem- 
bers of  the  chosen  army.  These  letters  were  widely 
circulated  and  freely  discussed,  so  that  it  was  beginning 
to  be  borne  in  upon  the  minds  of  those  who  received 
them  that  the  young  fellows  who  had  gone  away  were 
not  to  be  pitied,  after  all,  but  to  be  congratulated — 
at  least,  if  you  took  their  word  for  it. 

.  .  .  Rosy  tried  to  forget  the  war.  She  was  going 
to  the  summit,  and  she  wished  to  be  perfectly  happy. 

There  was  a  road  to  the  summit,  if  you  followed  the 
bench  road  half-way  around  the  mountain;  but  the 
bench  folk  in  Rosy's  neighborhood  never  went  up  by 
that  road.  They  had  a  nearer  way;  a  steep  footpath, 
with  lengths  of  wooden  stairway,  rising  only  a  short 
distance  from  Jacob  Feld's  house,  and  attaining  the 
summit  by  a  short,  if  almost  perpendicular,  quarter  of 
a  mile. 

She  walked  slowly  as  she  passed  old  Jacob  Feld's 
house  in  the  hope  that  Jacob  might  be  about.  But  he 
was  not.  Even  the  Feld  girls  were  unaware  of  her 
passing.  She  saw  them:  one  in  the  summer-kitchen, 
standing  off  by  itself,  and  the  other  in  the  gallery  which 


ioo  ROSY 

bisected  the  house.  One  was  baking  bread — she  could 
smell  it.  The  other  was  paring  apples,  perhaps  for 
making  apple-butter  or  pies. 

She  had  an  idea  that  if  she  had  been  slipping  down 
to  the  spring  for  water,  clad  in  her  every-day  dress  and 
shoes,  the  girls  would  have  been  sure  to  see  her.  But 
since  they  did  not  look  up  she  decided  not  to  call  to 
them.  They  would  have  been  sure  to  suspect  that  she 
wished  to  be  seen  because  of  her  fine  apparel. 

However,  a  few  steps  farther  on  she  came  upon  Mrs. 
Feld;  and  she  decided  that  upon  the  whole  she  would 
rather  have  Mrs.  Feld  see  her  than  her  daughters,  since 
she  had  a  more  observant  eye  than  either  of  them. 

"You  going  up  to  the  summit?"  the  old  lady  asked. 
She  stopped,  resting  her  hands  upon  her  huge  hips.  She 
added,  without  waiting  for  a  reply:  "That  lawn  was 
certainly  a  bargain — I  saw  it  at  Goldman's.  I'd  have 
bought  dresses  for  the  girls,  but  I  felt  I  ought  to  econ- 
omize npw.  You  know  since  Charley  went  his  father 
has  had  to  hire  a  man  to  help  with  the  store."  (Al- 
though Jacob  Feld  was  regarded  as  a  retired  business 
man,  he  still  retained  his  interest  in  the  small  store  in 
Pisgah  with  which  he  had  been  associated  for  thirty 
years.) 

Rosy  was  smiling  amiably.  "Yes,  I'm  going  to  the 
summit,"  she  said.  She  put  down  her  basket  and  nodded 
toward  it,  as  if  in  explanation.  "It  was  a  bargain,"  she 
continued.  She  crooked  her  left  arm  and  looked  at 
the  material  of  which  the  dress  was  made.  She  was 
thinking  that  if  she  had  encountered  Jacob  Feld  instead 
of  his  wife  he  would  have  conveyed  to  her  a  much  higher 
sense  of  appreciation  without  mentioning  Goldman's  or 
bargains,  and  perhaps  without  speaking  of  her  dress 
at  all. 

She  waited  a  moment,  thinking  that  perhaps  Mrs. 


ROSY  101 

Feld  had  something  else  to  say;  but  she  had  not.  And 
Rosy  thought  perhaps  she  was  still  too  full  of  her  son's 
going  away  to  join  the  army  to  speak  of  anything  else, 
and  that  probably  she  did  not  wish  to  speak  of  that. 

"I'll  see  you  when  I  come  back,"  she  said  cheerfully 
as  she  turned  away;  and  she  wondered  why  the  Felds 
could  not  take  the  whole  affair — the  war  and  their  son's 
going  away — like  other  people:  with  a  certain  amount 
of  gayety — perhaps  largely  assumed — instead  of  in 
that  peculiar  way  of  theirs,  as  if  something  quite  scan- 
dalous had  happened. 

However,  she  shook  off  the  rather  depressing  thought 
of  the  Felds  before  she  had  taken  half  a  dozen  steps 
up  the  steep  incline  which  led  to  the  summit.  Indeed, 
mountain-climbing  does  not  lend  itself  to  the  cultiva- 
tion of  moods  and  fancies.  She  was  soon  exerting  every 
ounce  of  power  she  possessed.  The  men  of  the  bench 
had  made  the  path  as  passable  as  they  could,  cutting 
steps  into  the  rock  or  earth  over  a  good  part  of  the  way, 
and  constructing  wooden  stairways  up  those  places 
where  no  other  plan  was  practicable.  There  were  even 
rude  hand-railings  beside  the  steps.  But  after  all,  the 
ascent  was  difficult  and  taxing. 

When  Rosy  paused,  as  she  did  at  intervals,  it  was 
not  to  enjoy  the  view  from  the  occasional  landing-places 
— which  was  really  wonderful  if  you  happened  to  be 
where  the  trees  did  not  crowd  in  upon  you — but  to  catch 
her  breath. 

She  found  her  mind  swinging  back  and  forth  between 
two  conclusions.  On  the  one  hand,  she  was  afraid  she 
was  shirking  a  responsibility  in  thus  going  away  from 
home  with  the  unconfessed  thought  of  staying  away 
quite  a  long  time,  and  having  a  good  time.  And  on 
the  other  hand  she  was  trying  to  feel  that  she  had  a 
right  to  enjoy  herself  in  a  perfectly  care-free  manner. 


102  ROSY 

During  the  past  two  or  three  months  life  had  seemed 
to  bea  glorious  thing  to  Rosy.  There  had  been,  of  course, 
a  period  immediately  following  the  death  of  her  parents 
when  she  feared  she  should  die  of  loneliness  and  despair. 
She  had  stayed  on  in  the  house  where  her  father  and 
mother  had  lain  dead.  It  had  not  been  an  easy  thing 
to  do,  but  it  had  seemed  to  her  the  only  thing  to  do. 
And  there  had  been  a  time  when  the  days  seemed 
interminable,  and  the  nights  filled  with  mysterious, 
terrifying  noises. 

For  example,  there  had  been  that  very  first  night, 
when  she  had  come  home  from  the  funeral  at  Pisgah. 
Late  at  night,  when  all  the  world  was  silent  as  a  tomb, 
there  had  been  a  sudden  solemn  rapping  in  the  kitchen. 
It  had  stopped  almost  as  soon  as  it  had  begun,  and  she 
was  glad,  because  she  decided  that  she  need  not  get 
up  and  go  to  see  what  it  was.  But  it  had  sounded  again, 
and  presently  again.  And  then  she  had  gone  out  to 
see  what  it  was;  and  when  she  felt  her  heart  pounding 
painfully,  she  tried  to  reassure  herself  by  thinking  how 
unimportant  a  little  noise  would  have  seemed,  if  her 
father  and  mother  had  been  there.  Nothing  was  astir — 
the  kitchen  was  empty;  and  she  had  gone  back  to  bed 
again.  And  after  a  long  period  of  silence  the  sound 
had  been  repeated :  imperatively,  loudly.  And  this  time 
she  had  said,  "I  must  find  out  what  it  is,  or  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  go  to  sleep."  And  she  had  searched 
thoroughly,  and  had  discovered  at  last  that  there  was 
a  mouse  in  the  trap  in  the  cupboard:  that  it  had  been 
caught  only  by  the  tail,  and  that  it  had  been  making 
spasmodic  efforts  to  get  away,  swinging  the  trap  against 
the  side  of  the  cupboard.  She  had  released  the  poor 
little  creature  and  had  gone  back  to  bed  and  had  fallen 
asleep. 

.  .  .    But  the  glorious  recuperative  power  of  youth 


ROSY  103 

had  asserted  itself  little  by  little,  and  there  had  come 
a  time  when  Rosy  thought  chiefly  of  the  perfect  liberty 
which  was  hers.  She  became  quite  happy. 

Now,  as  she  climbed  the  mountain,  she  realized  that 
new  responsibilities  had  come  to  her.  She  was  no  longer 
alone,  to  shape  all  her  actions  with  a  sole  view  to  her 
own  comfort.  She  mused,  with  a  kind  of  doggedness: 
"But  I'm  going  to  enjoy  myself  this  one  afternoon.  If 
he  gets  hungry  before  I  get  back  he  can  help  himself. 
There's  bread  and  butter  and  plenty  of  eggs.  He  ought 
to  know  how  to  cook  eggs.  And  there's  jelly.  He'll 
not  go  hungry." 

She  began  to  think  of  the  pleasures  which  almost 
surely  awaited  her  when  she  got  to  the  summit.  The 
hotel  manager  always  made  a  great  deal  over  her.  She 
recalled  how,  on  former  occasions,  when  she  had  de- 
livered her  basket  of  eggs,  the  manager  had  insisted 
that  she  take  one  of  the  comfortable,  big  chairs  on  the 
veranda,  while  he  summoned  a  waiter  to  bring  her 
lemonade  on  a  little  wicker  table  placed  by  her  side: 
or  sandwiches,  perhaps,  or  ice-cream. 

It  was  always  delightful  to  sit  there  on  the  veranda, 
as  if  she  were  a  distinguished  guest.  The  best  part  of 
it  all  was  to  surround  herself  with  a  kind  of  reserve,  to 
keep  people  at  a  distance.  She  did  this  because  she 
feared  that  if  she  seemed  to  invite  people  to  talk  to  her, 
and  they  did  not  do  so,  she  should  feel  humiliated — an 
outsider,  Dependent  upon  the  manager's  courtesy. 

It  was  delightful  to  fancy  that  those  well-dressed 
women  were  looking  at  her  and  saying  to  themselves 
"I  wonder  who  she  is?"  and  noting  that  the  manager 
was  treating  her  with  special  consideration.  And  she 
had  always  vaguely  believed  that  some  day  there  would 
be  the  one  great  adventure  of  all.  There  would  be  a 
young  man  not  at  all  of  the  mountain  type:  a  man  who 


io4  ROSY 

dressed  elegantly,  but  who  nevertheless  possessed  the 
highest  virtues — pride  and  honor  and  simplicity.  He 
would  be  a  young  man  who  had  learned  to  think  scorn- 
fully of  a  certain  type  of  young  woman:  the  frivolous, 
helpless  kind.  And  he  would  become  quite  bold — yet 
far  from  disrespectful — when  he  saw  her,  sitting  on  the 
veranda,  and  in  some  way  or  other  he  would  become 
acquainted  with  her.  She  was  not  sure  whether  he  would 
say,  the  very  first  thing,  "At  last  I  have  found  you!" 
or  whether  he  would  treat  her  with  great  deference, 
and  wait  a  long  time — perhaps  a  year  or  so — before 
saying  solemnly:  "Do  you  feel  that  you  can  place  your 
destiny  in  my  keeping?" 

.  .  .  She  was  on  the  summit  now,  in  sight  of  the 
hotel;  and  she  put  her  basket  down  and  stood  for  a 
moment  to  cool  off,  and  to  wipe  the  little  beads  of  sweat 
from  her  forehead  and  nose. 

And  then  suddenly  she  felt  herself  growing  cold  all 
over.  She  had  not  known  that  she  was  standing  quite 
close  to  the  heavy,  motionless  figure  of  a  man.  She 
knew  instantly  that  it  was  Sheriff  Hammond,  though 
his  face  was  turned  away  from  her.  He  was  searching 
the  slopes  beneath  him  in  a  certain  furtive  fashion.  If 
she  had  not  known  how  kind  a  man  he  was,  he  would 
have  made  her  think  of  a  huge,  cruel  cat. 

It  was  clear  that  he  had  seen  her.  Why,  then, 
shouldn't  he  have  been  friendly,  as  he  had  always  been 
before?  He  accosted  her  without  turning,  when  she 
paused  and  put  her  basket  down.  "Howdy,  Rosy!" 
And  then  he  began  a  noiseless  descent  of  the  long  flight 
of  steps,  still  without  turning  toward  her. 


CHAPTER  XI 

SHE  was  seated  on  the  hotel  veranda,  in  a  charming 
spot  with  an  infinity  of  valley  and  sky  before  her,  and 
with  a  pleasant  breeze  blowing  about  her,  tugging  at 
the  little  wisps  of  hair  at  her  temples.  She  stole  a  glance 
at  her  hat  on  the  bench  beside  her.  It  was  simply  ador- 
able. She  ventured  to  glance  at  her  slippers.  She 
thought  them  quite  elegant.  She  drew  a  deep  breath 
of  satisfaction.  What  a  lovely  world  it  was,  after  all ! 
The  manager  of  the  hotel,  who  had  relieved  her  of  her 
basket  of  eggs,  and  who  had  found  this  choicest  spot 
on  the  veranda  for  her,  had  just  gone,  and  she  knew 
the  little  wicker  table  would  make  its  appearance 
promptly. 

And  then  a  moment  later  she  heard  a  voice — a  voice 
which  drawled  a  little,  even  when  it  was  supposed  to 
express  surprise.  And  the  words  were  certainly  not 
the  words  of  the  young  man  of  her  dreams.  They  were: 
"Dad  burn  me  if  it  ain't  Rosy!"  And  then  she  saw 
Judge  Powell  coming  toward  her. 

Her  face  beamed  with  pleasure.  She  sprang  to  her 
feet  and  advanced  with  her  hand  extended.  "Well, 
Judge!"  she  exclaimed.  (She  pronounced  the  word 
almost  as  if  it  were  spelled  jedge — though  not  quite  that 
way.)  And  she  stood  looking  up  at  him,  flushed  with 
pleasure,  while  he  held  her  hand  and  gazed  at  her  with 
beaming  eyes  and  repeated:  "If  it  ain't  Rosy!" 

"I'd  begun  to  be  afraid  you  didn't  mean  to  come  up 
this  summer,"  she  said.  And  then  she  searched  his 
face,  deliberately  and  unabashed.  She  was  thinking: 

105 


io6  ROSY 

"What  can  have  made  him  so  much  grayer  in  just  that 
short  tune — or  is  it  that  I  didn't  notice  before?"  And 
aloud  she  said:  "You  haven't  changed  a  speck  since 
last  year — unless  you've  got  to  be  younger  than  you 
used  to  be." 

He  had  read  that  thought  in  her  mind  relative  to 
his  gray  hairs:  or  at  least  he  had  noted  the  fleeting, 
vague  look  of  dismay  with  which  she  had  regarded  him. 
And  he  continued  to  hold  her  hand  and  to  smile  keenly, 
a  bit  mischievously. 

"What's  the  use  in  coming,  when  I  can't  get  that 
house  on  the  bench  near  you  any  more?  You  see,  I'm 
a  truthful  person  when  I  talk  to  a  truthful  person  like 
you.  It  was  Mrs.  Powell  .  .  .  she  thought  we  could 
get  along  all  right  here  in  the  hotel,  since  we  couldn't 
get  the  cottage  on  the  bench  any  more.  And  so  we 
thought  we'd  be  grand  people  again  this  summer,  and 
live  among  the  waiters  and  the  fiddlers." 

He  had  not  yet  released  her  hand;  and  when  she  at- 
tempted to  withdraw  it  he  only  held  it  tighter  and  smiled 
more  broadly.  "I  notice  you're  getting  to  be  a  grand 
person  yourself,  Rosy:  sitting  here  on  the  hotel  piazza. 
as  fine  as  if  you  didn't  have  an  idea  in  your  head!" 

"I'm  sorry  you  couldn't  get  the  cottage,"  she  said. 
And  now  she  succeeded  in  freeing  her  hand.  She  clasped 
both  hands  behind  her  and  stood  looking  up  at  him. 
She  was  recalling  those  summers  on  the  bench,  when 
her  parents  were  well  and  happy,  and  the  Powells  were 
their  neighbors.  She  remembered  how  the  judge  had 
thought  more  of  spending  the  evening  on  the  front  porch, 
talking  to  her  father  about  old  times,  and  county  politics, 
and  the  affairs  of  the  mountain  folk,  than  of  spending 
them  among  the  gay  people  of  the  hotel.  And  then  she 
stepped  to  one  side  of  the  judge  so  that  she  could  see 
if  Mrs.  Powell  was  there  too:  and  she  saw  her,  sitting 


ROSY  107 

easily  erect,  and  smiling  patiently,  and  looking  altogether 
like  almost  any  great  painter's  Portrait  of  a  Lady — 
though  rather  more  good-natured. 

Rosy  brought  her  hands  together  in  front  of  her  with 
a  low  cry  of  joy.  She  was  childishly  excited.  She  said 
"Excuse  me,  Jedge,  I  want  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Powell!" 
(She  really  said  jedge  this  time.)  She  went  hurrying 
across  the  veranda;  and  Mrs.  Powell,  rising  slowly, 
came  forward  and  took  both  her  hands.  She  seemed 
to  be  appropriating  the  girl  forever  and  ever.  "Rosy — 
dear  Rosy!"  she  said,  in  her  slow,  soft  voice.  And  for 
a  long  moment  she  did  not  release  the  girl's  hands. 

The  Powells  decided  immediately  that  she  must  spend 
the  evening  with  them.  There  would  be  music,  very 
likely;  and  there  would  be  a  great  many  things  to  talk 
about. 

Rosy  met  this  proposal  frankly.  "I'd  love  to,"  she 
said.  "But  I  must  go  home  for  supper.  There'll  be 
so  many  afternoons,  you  know.  .  .  ." 

But  Mrs.  Powell  said  immediately,  "You'll  have 
your  supper  with  me.  The  judge  has  had  his  supper. 
We'll  have  it  served  right  where  we  are."  After  all, 
she  did  not  say  that  she  had  not  had  her  own  supper. 

Rosy  looked  a  bit  startled.  "Would  it  be — nice,  to 
eat  it  here  in  the  open?"  she  asked. 

"Would  you  enjoy  it  so,  dear  child?"  asked  Mrs. 
Powell. 

"Yes  .  .  .  yes,  it  would  be  delightful,  of  course." 

"Then  you  may  be  sure  it  would  be  nice,  too." 

She  sent  the  judge  away  to  the  dining-room.  There 
wasn't  even  an  exchange  of  glances  between  them.  And 
he  came  back  in  a  moment  or  two  to  say  that  the  waiter 
was  on  his  way. 

.  .  .    Later  they  went  to  see  the  sunset,  a  glorious 


io8  ROSY     - 

view  of  which  could  be  had  from  what  the  hotel  literature 
\  called  the  Bishop's  Throne:  a  natural  terrace  at  the 
western  end  of  the  plateau  which  formed  the  summit 
of  the  mountain.  It  seemed  that  there  had  been  a  gen- 
eral agreement  among  the  hotel  guests  to  meet  at  the 
Bishop's  Throne  on  this  occasion,  and  men  from  the 
hotel  had  carried  chairs  to  the  western  terrace.  The 
wreck  of  a  patriarchal  oak — the  only  tree  on  the  summit 
which  had  fallen  during  the  recent  tornado — had  been 
cleared  away,  and  everything  about  the  terrace  made 
neat  and  trim. 

It  was  a  sort  of  audience  that  assembled  there — as 
if  a  concert  had  been  arranged;  and  even  before  the 
sun  was  ready  to  set,  men's  and  women's  faces  were 
warmed  by  a  deep  glow,  as  if  they  had  gathered  before 
an  immense  fireplace. 

The  sun  fulfilled  its  part  of  the  programme  gloriously. 
There  were  just  enough  clouds  for  a  brilliant  effect, 
and  they  seemed  to  be  actually  afire  when  the  sun  had 
got  completely  behind  them.  When  the  colors  faded 
somewhat  the  audience  pretended  to  see  certain  out- 
lines and  pictures:  a  great  sea  with  many  islands,  a 
desert  with  isolated  shrubs  and  trees.  The  old  story 
of  Polonius  was  repeated. 

"It  is  like  a  sea  covered  with  ships,"  said  one. 

"Yes,"  declared  another,  "or  like  a  desert  with  lonely 
trees  on  it." 

"Yes,  very  like  a  desert,"  some  one  else  agreed,  "or 
like  .  .  ."  The  various  fancies  covered  great  scope — 
even  to  a  ruined  castle,  with  a  flock  of  sheep  lying  in 
a  meadow  before  it.  This,  indeed,  was  hailed  as  the 
best  description  of  all.  They  could  all  see  the  castle: 
yes,  and  there  were  the  sheep.  You  could  now  see  them 
moving,  grazing  their  way  across  the  meadow. 

.  .  .    The  colors  faded  entirely  and  it  was  just  a 


ROSY  109 

twilight  sky,  with  a  few  gray  clouds  in  it.  Some  one 
in  the  audience  said  "Ho,  hum!"  in  a  bored  voice. 

Rosy  turned  to  see  who  it  was  that  sat  on  the  other 
side  of  her  from  Judge  and  Mrs.  Powell.  She  uttered 
a  little  cry  of  surprise.  There  sat  the  two  Minturn  girls 
— sisters  of  Nat  Minturn. 

She  did  not  know  them  very  well.  They  had  never 
lived  on  the  mountain.  Their  home  was  quite  an  elegant 
one,  a  mile  or  so  up  the  river,  and  was  thought  to  be 
comfortable  and  attractive  enough,  even  during  the 
hot  summer  months.  The  Minturns  had  always  been 
regarded  as  reticent  people — all  save  Nat,  who  had 
always  manifested  a  kind  of  shy  eagerness  to  be  friendly 
with  every  one. 

Rosy  addressed  them  with  a  certain  lack  of  assurance: 
"Isn't  that  you,  Fanny — and  Evelyn?" 

She  was  not  sure  why  she  felt  rather  uncomfortable 
in  addressing  them.  She  was  afraid  they  would  speak 
of  their  brother — there  had  been  something  in  the  Pisgah 
paper  just  the  week  before  about  his  regiment  being 
in  France.  She  was  afraid  they  might  boast  about  hav- 
ing a  brother  in  the  army;  and  she  felt  sorry  for  them. 

And  then  she  began  to  feel  strangely  chilly — and 
then  uncomfortably  warm:  for  the  Minturn  girls  did 
not  pay  any  attention  to  her.  They  continued  to  look 
straight  before  them,  though  nobody  else  was  looking 
at  the  sunset  now.  They  held  their  heads  in  a  rather 
lofty  manner.  And  Rosy  knew  it  was  their  intention 
to  snub  her:  not  quite  rudely,  but  none  the  less  effec- 
tually. They  did  not  know  how  to  snub  any  one  deftly, 
she  thought,  and  they  lacked  the  courage  to  show  her 
boldly  that  they  did  not  wish  to  be  friendly  with  her. 
They  made  her  think  of  kittens,  which  really  know  what 
you  are  about,  but  which  refuse  to  pay  any  attention 
to  you. 


no  ROSY 

But  she  forgot  the  Minturn  girls  for  a  moment.  Mrs. 
Powell  was  leaning  toward  her,  her  hand  on  the  judge's 
knee.  "You  mustn't  worry  about  the  dark  coming, 
Rosy.  The  judge  will  see  that  you  get  home  safely — 
you  poor,  lonely  child,  j^ou!"  The  final  words  were 
spoken  precisely  as  if  they  were  a  caress. 

Rosy  knew  that  the  Minturn  girls  were  leaning  for- 
ward now,  staring  at  Mrs.  Powell  in  amazement,  and 
taking  in  every  detail  of  her  lovely  and  gracious  person. 
She  knew  also  that  they  were  alternating  their  gaze 
at  Mrs.  Powell  with  amazed  glances  at  each  other.  She 
felt  humiliated  that  she  should  be  pleased  because  the 
Minturn  girls  were  there  to  hear  Mrs.  Powell  speak 
to  her  hi  such  a  lovely  way. 

She  did  not  reply  to  Mrs.  Powell,  unless  a  dubious, 
wistful  smile  may  be  said  to  be  a  reply.  She  was  think- 
ing: "She  believes  there  is  nobody  in  the  house  now 
but  myself.  And  I  cannot  tell  her  that  there  is  some  one 
else  there." 

...  It  was  quite  dark  when  she  left  the  hotel  to 
go  home.  She  remained  with  the  Powells  a  little  longer 
than  she  wished  to.  She  was  trying  to  think  of  some 
way  of  preventing  Judge  Powell  from  going  with  her 
down  to  the  bench.  Her  heart  smote  her  when  she 
thought  how  old  he  looked;  and  she  experienced  a  deeper 
pang  when  she  realized  that  she  should  no  longer  feel 
happy  and  proud  to  have  him  in  her  house,  as  she  used 
to  do.  No  matter  how  well  she  might  manage,  it  would 
be  fearfully  uncomfortable  to  have  him  there.  She 
should  feel  guilty — she  should  not  be  able  to  look  into 
his  face.  She  had  no  right  to  conceal  anything  from 
one  who  had  always  been  such  a  loyal  friend.  Yet  there 
were  now  things  which  she  could  not  tell,  even  to  Judge 
Powell.  And  she  knew  he  would  insist  upon  going  with 
her,  if  she  confessed  that  she  meant  to  go  alone. 


ROSY  in 

At  length  she  thought  of  the  right  thing  to  do.  She 
informed  the  Powells  that  she  must  go,  because  she 
had  another  call  to  make  while  she  was  on  the  summit; 
and  they  bade  her  good  night  and  watched  her  vanish 
into  the  obscurity  beyond  the  hotel  lawn. 

The  judge's  comment,  after  she  was  gone,  was: 
"Didn't  she  look  like  a  picture,  in  that  nice  dress?" 

And  Mrs.  Powell,  like  a  benevolent  spider,  waited 
for  her  superior  fly  to  get  farther  into  her  web.  "Yes," 
she  conceded  quietly. 

"And" — added  the  judge — "would  she  look  still 
prettier  in  one  of  those — confections,  do  you  call  them  ? — 
you  have  made  for  yourself?" 

"Yes,"  was  the  complacent  reply.  "Though  a  con- 
fection for  her  would  be  a  little  different.  A  little  more 
of  a  confection." 

"I  wonder,"  ruminated  the  judge. 

.  .  .  Rosy  felt  no  uneasiness  at  all  about  going  down 
the  steps  to  the  bench  in  the  dark.  Her  only  misgiving 
had  to  do  with  the  house  she  had  so  long  deserted,  and 
the  guest  she  had  left  in  it.  Nat  would  think  she  never 
meant  to  return. 

Nevertheless  it  was  depressingly  lonely  after  the  last 
of  the  summit  lights  had  been  left  behind  her  and  only 
the  vague,  uninviting  steps  lay  before  her.  And  then, 
after  she  had  descended  only  a  little  way,  and  had  turned 
a  corner  around  a  huge  boulder,  she  was  startled  by 
the  sight  of  a  lantern  there  before  her  on  the  path.  A 
lantern,  shut  in  oddly  by  the  mists  which  were  begin- 
ning to  gather  on  the  mountain,  and  the  obscure,  om- 
inously quiet  figure  of  a  man. 

She  thought  with  a  sinking  heart  of  Sheriff  Ham- 
mond, whom  she  had  last  seen  that  afternoon,  not  far 
from  this  spot.  But  she  reminded  herself  that  she  was 
foolish  to  entertain  fears  of  the  sheriff.  He  had  always 


ii2  ROSY 

been  friendly  with  her;  and  even  if  he  had  decided  to 
make  a  close  examination  of  the  whole  mountain  for 
Zeb  Nanny  .  .  .  well,  there  was  no  reason  for  her  to 
fear  him. 

She  went  on  her  way  resolutely;  and  when  the  lan- 
tern was  lifted  presently  she  asked  herself  in  a  puzzled 
manner:  "Can  it  be  somebody  waiting  for  me?" 

It  was  somebody  waiting  for  her.  It  was  Jacob  Feld. 
He  called  out  to  her  cheerfully — "Is  that  you,  Rosy?" 
And  when  she  reached  the  landing  on  which  he  stood 
he  added:  "Mother  said  you  went  up  to  the  summit 
to-day,  and  that  she  hadn't  seen  you  come  back." 

He  turned  and  walked  by  her  side,  holding  the  lan- 
tern so  that  she  could  see  the  steps  better,  and  even 
taking  her  hand  when  the  way  was  rough. 

Rosy  was  thinking:  "He  must  have  come  just  on 
purpose  to  meet  me.  He  has  been  waiting — maybe  a 
long  time."  She  felt  her  heart  swell.  But  she  said  with 
an  earnest  effort  to  speak  severely:  "You  shouldn't 
have  bothered  about  me,  Mr.  Feld.  You  know  I  know 
the  way  perfectly." 

He  did  not  reply  to  this;  and  together  they  descended 
the  steps  until  they  came  out  upon  the  level  bench  road. 

Minturn  was  sitting  just  inside  the  door,  in  one  of 
the  great  comfortable  rocking-chairs  the  house  con- 
tained, in  almost  pitchy  darkness,  when  she  entered 
the  room. 

With  the  wariness  which  was  a  new  development 
she  closed  the  door  before  she  uttered  a  word;  and  then 
she  asked,  almost  impatiently:  "Why  didn't  you  make 
a  light?" 

He  did  not  reply  to  her  question.  Instead,  he  arose 
and  came  toward  her  impulsively.  In  the  darkness 
she  could  hear  him  breathing  deeply.  "Rosy!"  he  ex- 


ROSY  113 

claimed.  He  felt  for  her  hand  and  drew  her  closer  to 
him.  "I  thought  you'd  never  come!"  he  added  re- 
proachfully. And  then  before  she  was  quite  aware  of 
what  he  meant  to  do  he  had  put  his  other  hand  about 
her  shoulder  and  was  drawing  her  into  an  eager  em- 
brace. 


CHAPTER  XII 

FOR  the  slightest  fraction  of  a  second  it  seemed  to 
her  that  it  would  be  very  nice  to  have  him  embrace 
her.  So  much  of  the  world  was  lovely — why  should 
there  be  any  exceptions  anywhere  ?  But  then  she  found 
herself  drawing  away  from  him  resolutely.  An  embrace 
wasn't  just  like  shaking  hands.  It  seemed  to  have  a 
different  meaning.  It  needn't  have  done  so,  so  far  as 
she  could  see — but  she  knew  it  was  understood  to  mean 
something  quite  different. 

She  thought:  "Nat  is  glad  to  have  me  back  again. 
It  seems  good  to  him  to  have  somebody  with  him.  And 
he  is  grateful.  But  an  embrace  is  too  much." 

She  did  not  know  what  love  was,  really.  She  did 
not  know,  despite  those  dreams  which  had  had  to  do 
with  the  arrival,  after  a  long  time,  of  a  splendid  creature 
who  would  make  life  seem  to  her  a  different  thing  en- 
tirely. And  yet  of  late  there  had  been  strange,  wistful 
dreams — vague  yet  lovely,  in  which  there  had  been 
drum-beats  and  bugle  calls,  and  a  soldier  who  had  gone 
away  to  France.  What  had  it  meant — that  look  he 
had  given  her  before  he  went  away?  Why  should  his 
final  handclasp  have  meant  so  much  more  than  many 
words  ? 

There  was  unmistakable  resolution  in  her  manner 
as  she  drew  away  from  Minturn.  "You  mustn't!" 
she  said;  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  voice  expressed 
actual  dislike  for  him.  "I  must  make  a  light,"  she  added. 
She  knew  that  he  was  wounded,  resentful;  yet  she  felt 
excited,  almost  exultant — as  if  she  had  effected  an  escape. 
She  realized  now  that  she  had  been  troubled  because 
of  her  relationship  with  him,  and  she  decided  that  she 
would  worry  no  more.  She  tried  to  speak  as  if  there 

114 


ROSY  115 

were  only  a  casual  relationship  between  them.  "I  sup- 
pose you've  had  nothing  to  eat?"  she  asked. 

When  the  light  of  the  lamp  slowly  filled  the  room 
she  stepped  back  to  the  other  side  of  the  table  and  as- 
sumed an  energetic,  practical  air. 

The  muscles  about  his  eyes  contracted  because  of 
the  light.  "You  know  I  couldn't  have  made  a  light," 
he  said.  "Every  one  knows — everything,  here  on  the 
bench.  They  knew  you  had  gone  to  the  summit,  of 
course.  What  would  they  have  thought  if  they'd  seen 
a  light  here?" 

He  spoke  unpleasantly;  and  she  replied  with  spirit: 
"I  don't  believe  people  notice  as  close  as  air  that." 

"But  they  do!"  he  declared;  and  he  looked  after 
her  angrily  as  she  turned  to  go  into  the  kitchen. 

She  sighed  faintly  at  the  thought  of  having  to  descend 
into  an  atmosphere  of  frying-pans  and  smoking  grease 
and  broken  eggs,  after  that  heavenly  table  up  at  the 
hotel.  But  she  conquered  this  weakness.  One  must 
do  one's  duty,  and  do  it  cheerfully,  of  course. 

She  was  amazed  when  she  heard  his  footsteps  behind 
her,  approaching  in  a  menacing  manner.  He  reached 
the  kitchen  door  before  she  did,  intercepting  her.  Then 
he  tried  to  control  himself.  "Don't  go  out  there  now," 
he  besought  her.  And  then  because  she  paused  obe- 
diently, he  resumed  a  dictatorial  air.  "Rosy,  we  must 
come  to  an  understanding,"  he  said.  "You  know  I 
can't  go  on  living  this  way,  like  a  mouse.  I  should  go 
crazy.  We've  got  to  do  something."  He  stood  with 
either  hand  against  the  door  casing,  barring  her  way, 
and  facing  her  menacingly. 

A  strange  calm  suddenly  possessed  her.  "Well," 
she  said,  "  ...  do  what?" 

He  would  have  said:  "We  could  be  married."  He 
had  been  turning  over  in  his  mind  the  possibilities  of 


n6  ROSY 

a  secret  marriage — of  sending  for  a  minister  from  a  dis- 
tance. It  had  seemed  to  him  that  it  might  be  managed. 
But  a  kind  of  latent  fury  in  her  manner  silenced  him. 
He  stared  at  her  as  if  he  had  never  really  seen  her  be- 
fore. "Why,  Rosy!  .  .  ."  he  exclaimed;  and  he  stood 
aside  and  watched  her  wonderingly  as  she  went  out  into 
the  kitchen. 

She  seemed  almost  immediately  to  forget  the  stress 
of  that  moment.  She  looked  about  for  kindling  with 
which  to  start  the  fire.  And- presently  she  was  smiling 
faintly,  though  she  kept  her  face  turned  away  from 
Minturn.  "It's  like  having  your  married  troubles  begin 
without  ever  having  been  married,"  she  thought. 
"That's  the  way  the  Springers  talk — and  they've  been 
married  thirty  years."  She  thought  how  at  any  previous 
time  he  would  have  offered  to  help  build  the  fire — to  be 
useful  in  some  way  or  other.  And  then  it  occurred  to 
her  that  perhaps  he  was  more  deeply  wounded  than 
she  had  realized.  It  must  have  been  lonesome  in  the 
hut  all  by  himself. 

She  tried  to  put  herself  in  his  place;  and  she  knew 
that  she  should  have  developed  a  violent  temper  if  she 
had  been  required  to  spend  whole  days  and  nights  in 
the  house,  fearful  of  being  seen,  and  denied  the  relief 
of  even  a  word  with  those  who  came  into  the  house. 
The  indignity  of  it  must  be  terrible:  to  have  to  hide 
whenever  anybody  came. 

She  turned  about  with  the  thought  of  speaking  to 
him  more  gently — of  showing  him  that  she  wished  to 
do  her  share  in  dispelling  the  cloud  which  had  settled 
over  them.  But  before  she  could  frame  a  sentence  she 
was  arrested  by  the  sound  of  footsteps  out  in  the  road. 

Minturn  had  heard  those  footsteps  too;  and  he  stood 
as  if  turned  into  an  image,  listening  to  the  sound. 

They  turned  off  the  road  and  came  nearer  the  hut. 


ROSY  117 

"It's  somebody  coming!"  whispered  Rosy;  and  he 
nodded.  And  as  he  had  done  on  other  former  occasions, 
he  tiptoed  to  the  ladder  and  ascended  it  hurriedly.  She 
looked  after  him  anxiously,  thinking:  "He'll  have  to 
wait  for  his  supper  again."  And  then  there  was  a  rap 
at  the  door. 

She  did  not  respond  immediately.  She  wished  to 
be  sure  that  Nat  had  settled  down  in  his  place  in  the 
attic,  so  that  he  would  not  be  betrayed  by  creaking 
timbers.  She  moved  a  chair  somewhat  noisily,  in 
spurious  token  of  the  fact  that  she  was  making  ready 
to  respond  to  that  tap  at  the  door.  And  then  after  an- 
other brief  interval — she  might  have  been  thought  to 
be  laying  aside  sewing  or  a  book — she  went  and  opened 
the  door. 

The  Feld  girls  were  there,  their  fair  faces  framed  in 
the  darkness  behind  them.  They  stood,  one  a  little 
in  front  of  the  other,  as  they  nearly  always  stood:  these 
relative  positions  presenting  a  complete  epitome  of 
their  characters. 

Hilda  Feld  was  generally  thought  to  be  a  kind  of 
indiscreet,  forward  girl — according  to  the  mountain 
standards.  She  talked  incessantly  at  times,  fearlessly, 
inconsequentially.  She  often  spoke  tactlessly — realizing 
when  it  was  too  late  that  she  had  done  so.  She  was 
always  ready  with  a  pronounced  opinion — often  realizing 
tardily  that  she  had  no  right  to  an  opinion. 

Mary,  her  sister,  was  considered  to  possess  precisely 
the  merits  which  Hilda  lacked.  She  moved  about  some- 
what like  her  sister's  shadow.  She  was  forever  looking 
at  Hilda  with  wide  eyes  and  an  expression  which  was 
equivalent  to  the  words,  "Why,  Hilda!"  It  seemed 
to  be  her  mission  in  life  to  go  about  counteracting  Hilda 
—to  efface  the  unfortunate  impressions  created  by  her 
sister.  Yet  they  were  very  fond  of  each  other. 


n8  ROSY 

It  was  Hilda  who  entered  Rosy's  door  first.  She  was 
talking  before  the  door  was  well  open.  "We're  not 
going  to  stay  but  a  minute,"  she  was  saying,  "but  father 
thinks  you  must  be  awfully  lonesome  sometimes.  ..." 

Mary  had  entered  by  now,  and  with  her  wide  eyes 
on  Hilda  she  said:  "We  were  lonesome  ourselves,  Rosy, 
and  we  always  enjoy  visiting  you,  of  course." 

Rosy  was  smiling  faintly.  She  said  to  Mary:  "Hilda 
didn't  mean  that  you  came  just  because  you  were  sorry 
for  me." 

Hilda  spoke  again  with  an  effect  of  shouldering  the 
others  aside.  "The  idea!"  she  exclaimed;  and  then 
she  went  on,  while  Mary  regarded  her  with  an  air  of 
fatality:  "And  we've  brought  you  a  letter.  Springer 
has  just  come  up  from  Pisgah  and  he  brought  the  mail — 
ours  and  yours  too.  He  thought  maybe  we'd  like  to 
bring  you  yours.  It's  a  letter  with  a  foreign  postmark, 
and  we  wondered " 

Mary  began  to  efface  this  unfortunate  impression 
instantly.  "We  didn't  want  you  to  have  to  wait  for 
your  letter,"  she  said. 

Rosy  took  the  letter  with  a  cry  of  eagerness  which 
she  could  scarcely  have  explained  to  herself.  Her  fingers 
trembled  as  she  opened  it. 

Hilda  persisted:  "I  said  you  couldn't  know  anybody 
abroad  but  Nat  Minturn;  and  the  letter  having  that 
foreign  postmark — "  She  seemed  to  feel  that  she  was 
going  too  far,  or  at  least  that  Mary  would  think  so. 
She  checked  herself;  but  she  could  not  help  adding  a 
moment  later:  "It  seems  too  romantic,  getting  a  letter 
from  Nat,  and  him  a  soldier,  and  in  France  and  all." 

Rosy  just  glanced  at  the  letter,  and  then  she  knew 
that  she  did  not  wish  to  read  it  while  there  were  others 
about.  She  tried  to  assume  a  perfectly  calm  manner. 
She  folded  the  letter  and  replaced  it  in  its  envelope. 


ROSY  119 

No,  she  could  not  read  that  letter  now — a  letter  which 
began  in  that  way.  This  time  it  was  not  a  letter  of 
apology.  It  was  a  love-letter.  She  wished  she  might 
rise  and  dance  about  the  room  and  shout.  She  feared 
that  perhaps  she  might  do  so  if  she  did  not  try  to  con- 
trol herself. 

Hilda  seemed  almost  affronted.  "But  aren't  you 
going  to  read  it  and  tell  us  what  Nat's  got  to  say?" 
she  demanded. 

She  turned  defiantly  toward  Mary  before  she  had 
finished  speaking;  but  Mary,  her  color  slightly  height- 
ened, held  her  ground.  "She  doesn't  want  to  read  it 
until  she  is  alone,  Hilda,"  she  said  severely. 

"Oh,  well  .  .  ."  said  Hilda.  It  was  rather  pathetic, 
the  way  she  accepted  reproofs,  as  if  they  were  a  part 
of  the  elements  by  which  she  existed — like  air  and  water 
and  fire.  She  sighed  with  childlike  candor.  However, 
she  instantly  recovered  her  wonted  energy  and  purpose- 
fulness.  Her  voice  arose  to  a  shuttle-like  pitch  of  in- 
dustry. "What  surprises  me,"  she  said,  "is  that  Nat 
Minturn  should  have  been  the  first  of  our  boys  to  go. 
You'd  have  guessed  he  would  be  the  very  last."  She 
gained  such  impetus  immediately  that  she  did  not  even 
know  that  Mary  was  opening  her  lips  repeatedly  in  an 
effort  to  say  something — to  keep  abreast  of  her  work 
of  effacement.  However,  Mary  was  at  a  loss  for  words. 
She  could  scarcely  have  said:  "But  Hilda,  Nat  is  Rosy's 
sweetheart.  You  mustn't  say  such  things  about  him." 
No  one  had  ever  supposed  that  Rosy  and  Nat  were 
sweethearts,  though  they  had  been  quite  friendly  when 
they  were  younger.  And  though  his  having  written 
to  her  before  he  wrote  to  anybody  else  might  be  thought 
to  establish  the  fact,  it  was  a  subject  which  must  be 
referred  to  delicately  in  Rosy's  presence. 

Hilda  continued:   "If  you'd  have  asked  me,  I'd  have 


120  ROSY 

said  he  was  a  coward.  I  believe  you  used  to  think  so 
yourself,  Rosy,  when  we  all  used  to  play  together.  If 
you  cared  for  him  more  than  for  the  others  it  was  be- 
cause ...  do  you  remember  the  time  you  found  a 
squirrel  that  had  been  shot  and  not  killed,  and  made 
such  a  fuss  over  it?  It  must  have  been  like  that.  So 
far  as  I'm  concerned  .  .  .  I'm  going  to  tell  you  some- 
thing I  never  told  to  another  mortal  soul." 

Mary  hastily  interposed:  "If  you  mean  pity,  Hilda, 
it's  absurd — a  nice  boy  with  a  father  who  doesn't  know 
how  rich  he  is!" 

"Oh!— a  rich  father  ...  I'm  talking  about  Nat." 

Rosy  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  looked  with  im- 
partial interest  from  one  of  the  girls  to  the  other.  Her 
expression  was  such  as  it  might  have  been  if  a  limited 
museum  of  curious  objects  had  been  set  down  for  her 
inspection. 

Hilda  took  a  comb  out  of  her  heavy,  pale  hair  and 
began  to  readjust  the  knot  in  it  which  she  had  made 
of  various  coils.  She  put  hairpins  between  her  lips. 
Her  manner  conveyed  the  stern  injunction,  "Don't  any 
one  speak  until  I  tell  you  the  rest,"  and  Rosy  became 
slightly  rigid,  and  looked  at  Hilda  with  an  expression 
which  was  becoming  almost  incredulous,  while  Mary's 
face  brightened  with  expectancy.  She  was  always  in- 
terested in  Hilda's  revelations,  because  they  were  some- 
times quite  electrifying;  and  there  was  always  time 
for  admonition  after  she  had  said  what  she  had  to  say. 

"I  started  around  the  bench  with  him  one  time," 
resumed  Hilda,  adjusting  her  comb  with  jablike  move- 
menta  "We  were  both  just  fifteen  years  old.  And 
we  came  to  the  Devil's  Pulpit."  She  paused  and  looked 
a  kind  of  impatient  inquiry  at  Rosy. 

"I  know,"  said  Rosy.  She  had  not  seen  the  Devil's 
Pulpit  for  a  long  time,  but  she  recalled  it:  a  kind  of 


ROSY  121 

spur  rising  from  the  main  body  of  the  mountain — an 
integral  part  of  the  mountain,  indeed — with  a  bottomless 
fissure  separating  it  from  the  main  structure.  A  leap 
of  some  four  feet  carried  you  across  the  chasm,  and  you 
found  yourself  on  the  spur,  with  only  a  stunted  pine- 
tree  for  company.  The  spur,  of  a  rounded  shape,  had 
a  diameter  of  less  than  twenty  feet. 

Hilda  went  on.  "I  jumped  across.  Every  last  one 
of  us  used  to  do  that,  you  know,  when  nobody  was  look- 
ing. And  I  called  to  Nat  to  follow.  But  he  didn't  fol- 
low. And  when  I  looked  back  there  he  stood,  as  white 
as  a  sheet.  He  called  to  me  in  a  whisper  to  come  back. 
He  had  been  looking  down — and  you  know  that  wouldn't 
do.  I  asked  him  if  he  was  a  coward.  And  I  jumped 
back  and  forth  two  or  three  times.  I  actually  got  him 
to  jump  too — for  the  first  and  last  time  in  his  life,  I'll 
bet.  And  then  the  funniest  part  of  it  all  happened. 
He  actually  trembled.  He  asked  me  with  the  stiffest 
look  about  his  lips  how  we  were  going  to  get  back.  And 
I  said  'It's  no  further  back  than  it  was  across.'  And 
then,  what  do  you  suppose?  There  was  a  snake — a 
rattler.  A  great  big  one.  It  came  up  out  of  the  rocks 
and  lay  between  us  and  our  way  back.  It  curled  up 
and  rattled.  And  what  do  you  suppose  Nat  did  then? 
He  shinned  up  that  old  pine-tree.  He  certainly  knows 
how  to  climb.  He  was  screaming,  actually.  He  kept 
calling,  'Hilda ! — Hilda !'  You  know  there  wasn't  room 
in  the  tree  for  two.  And  there  was  I  alone  with  that 
horrid  snake,  and  Nat  safe  up  in  the  tree." 

"Hilda !"  exclaimed  her  sister  Mary;  and  even  Rosy 
gave  her  undivided  attention  for  the  moment. 

"It  didn't  bother  me  a  bit,"  resumed  Hilda.  "I 
might  have  been  a  little  nervous,  but  I  was  too  mad 
to  know  it.  I  just  looked  once  at  Nat,  and  then  I  picked 
up  a  handful  of  rocks  and  went  after  that  snake.  I  had 


122  ROSY 

its  back  broken  before  I  threw  three  times.  It  seemed 
to  be  trying  to  bite  itself.  It  threshed  around  and  then 
it  rolled  out  of  sight.  And  I  made  the  jump  again  and 
went  on  home.  I  didn't  look  back  once.  And  that 
was  the  last  time  Nat  Minturn  and  I  ever  spoke  to  each 
other." 

There  was  an  interval  of  silence  and  then  Mary  said, 
with  an  appealing  glance  at  Rosy:  "Sometimes  it's  the 
people  who  shrink  most  from  danger  who  do  the  best 
of  all  when  they  make  their  minds  up."  She  felt  that 
after  all,  Hilda  should  not  have  told  the  story  of  Nat's 
bad  behavior — not  before  Rosy.  And  she  was  afraid 
she  might  go  from  bad  to  worse.  "I  think  we  ought 
to  go  now,  and  let  Rosy  read  her  letter,"  she  said  rather 
severely. 

They  went  away  after  innumerable  fragments  of 
sentences,  Mary  waiting  until  Hilda  had  gone  on  in 
advance,  as  if  she  needed  to  be  driven  or  guided,  before 
she  followed.  Her  last  glance  at  Rosy  was  one  of  plead- 
ing and  apology. 

And  when  they  were  gone  Rosy  sat  motionless,  her 
level  glance  seemingly  suspended,  and  a  faint,  inexplic- 
able smile  on  her  lips. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IT  was  Judge  Powell's  claim  that  he  derived  no  great 
pleasure  from  the  Summit  Hotel  until  an  hour  when 
all  the  other  guests  had  ceased  to  enjoy  it:  at  one  or 
two  o'clock  at  night,  when  practically  everybody  was 
asleep.  During  these  hours,  and  later,  it  was  his  habit 
to  sit  out  on  the  veranda  and  smoke  and  talk  to  two  or 
three  other  congenial  persons  who  assembled  there  with 
him. 

There  was  the  hotel  manager,  Price,  a  Kentuckian 
who  had  owned  and  bred  race-horses  in  his  earlier  years, 
and  who  had  a  fine  talent  for  recalling  pictures  and  stories 
of  that  South  which  had  passed  away.  And  there  was 
the  house  physician,  Hood,  a  young  fellow  of  unfailing 
good  humor  and  a  pleasant  habit  of  deferring  to  men 
who  were  older  than  himself,  even  when  his  mental 
abilities  might  have  justified  him  in  asserting  himself. 

On  the  night  of  Rosy's  visit  to  the  summit  the  judge 
emerged  from  the  hotel  at  a  rather  late  hour  and  found, 
just  as  he  had  expected  to  do,  a  vacant  chair  waiting 
for  him  at  the  end  of  the  veranda,  where  the  manager 
and  the  doctor  were  smoking  their  cigars.  He  had  gone 
up  to  sit  a  little  while  with  Mrs.  Powell,  and  to  tell  her 
good  night;  and  now  he  looked  forward  to  an  hour — 
or  perhaps  hours — wholly  unmarred  by  the  necessity 
of  being  or  seeming  stimulated:  a  delightful  period 
during  which  the  conversation  would  take  its  own  course, 
and  rise  or  fall  of  its  own  volition.  And  if  there  should 
be  nothing  to  say,  there  would  be  wholly  unembarrassed 
silences,  and  rest — and  the  curling  away  into  obscurity 
of  fragrant  clouds  of  smoke. 

123 


124  ROSY 

On  this  occasion,  however,  there  was  something  to 
say.  The  manager  was  speaking  of  Rosy:  of  what  he 
called  the  hard  struggle  she  had  been  required  to  make, 
and  of  her  unfailing  good  spirits.  Her  conduct,  he 
thought,  afforded  a  lesson  to  nine-tenths  of  the  men 
who  got  along  easier  and  were  more  ready  to  complain. 

As  the  judge  pulled  his  chair  a  little  closer  to  the  rail- 
ing and  sat  down  and  found  a  perch  for  his  feet,  the 
manager  remarked. 

"We  were  speaking  of  Rosy,  Judge."  And  after  a 
moment  he  added,  as  if  he  were  inviting  reminiscences, 
"I  believe  you  and  her  father  knew  each  other  a  good 
many  years  ago?" 

The  judge  very  deliberately  produced  a  cigar-cutter 
and  removed  the  end  from  a  fresh  cigar.  And  then  he 
struck  a  match.  The  flame  illuminated  his  face,  bring- 
ing it  out,  ruddy  and  clear,  amidst  the  obscurity.  It 
touched  his  eyes  and  revealed  in  them  an  expression 
at  once  pensive,  and  solemn,  and  proud. 

"Yes,"  he  replied.  He  waved  the  match  until  its 
flame  was  extinguished.  "Did  you  ever  hear,"  he  asked, 
without  any  seeming  relevancy,  "the  story  of  the  Two 
Brothers  ?  A  story  of  Syria,  I  think — away  back  yonder. 
The  two  brothers  were  very  fond  of  each  other.  They 
both  tilled  little  fields,  adjoining  each  other.  And  one 
year  there  was  a  plague  of  locusts,  or  a  drought,  or  some- 
thing, and  their  crops  were  almost  too  sorry  to  be  worth 
harvesting — just  as  we  have  them  sometimes  to-day. 
Well,  one  night  one  of  the  brothers  sat  in  his  house  and 
thought  of  the  other  brother:  thought  of  how  bad  his 
crop  had  been,  and  how  great  his  need  was — of  his  debts 
and  his  burdens,  and  such  things.  He  wondered  how 
his  brother  could  possibly  get  along.  And  at  last  he 
had  an  idea.  He  got  up — it  was  late  at  night,  remember 
— and  went  out  into  his  own  field  and  gathered  a  few 


ROSY  125 

poor  sheaves  of  grain  in  his  arms,  and  started  as  stealthily 
as  a  thief  into  his  brother's  field — to  leave  his  own  sheaves 
there,  you  see:  as  if  they  had  been  part  of  his  brother's 
harvest.  But  when  he  started  into  his  brother's  field 
whom  should  he  meet  but  his  brother — moving,  just 
as  he  had  been,  stealthily,  with  his  arms  filled  with 
sheaves.  You  see,  they  had  both  had  the  same  thought 
and  had  done  the  same  thing!" 

After  a  brief  silence  the  doctor  leaned  forward  and 
flicked  the  ashes  from  his  cigar.  "A  mighty  pretty 
story,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  continued  the  judge,  rather  more  briskly, 
"I  knew  Rosy's  father  long  ago.  We  were  both  about 
fourteen  years  old  when  we  met  for  the  first  time.  It 
was  on  a  Monday  morning,  I  remember,  about  eight 
o'clock.  In  September.  It  was  on  the  campus — we 
were  both  starting  in  as  students  at  a  certain  school. 
I  won't  give  the  name  of  it.  It  was  in  Virginia,  and  it 
was  in  the  year  1863. 

"In  those  years  I  don't  think  the  word  'affinity'  had 
come  into  use,  except  as  it  was  used  in  laboratories  and 
such  places.  But  using  the  word  in  its  later  sense,  I 
think  Sam  Woodridge  and  I  were  affinities.  And  I  want 
to  tell  you  that  an  affinity  between  two  boys  can  be  a 
wonderful  thing  sometimes.  These  new  affinities,  where 
married  men  and  women  get  tangled  up  in  dishonesties 
and  nasty  messes  .  .  .  I've  nothing  like  that  in  mind, 
you  understand.  But  when  two  boys  choose  each  other 
as  mates  I  think  the  angels  in  heaven  must  go  about 
slapping  one  another  on  the  backs.  Nothing  ugly  about 
it,  you  know.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  It's  a  kind  of  mutual 
care  and  service  that  we're  likely  to  outgrow  when  we 
get  older  and  busier — and  then  we  wonder  why  life  isn't 
the  great  thing  it  used  to  be. 

"Sam  and  I  drew  together  that  morning  as  naturally 


126  ROSY 

as  two  molecules  in  a  rock.  We  just  looked  at  each 
other  without  speaking  for  a  while,  and  then  something 
as  commonplace  as  you  could  imagine  was  said — about 
the  size  of  the  campus,  very  likely.  But  certain  laws 
were  at  work  already — strong.  It  was  the  beginning 
of  a  friendship  that  never  ended  until  last  winter,  when 
Sam  died — and  I  can't  feel  that  it's  ended  yet. 

"He  was  what  you'd  call  a  natural-born  student. 
There  aren't  many  of  them  in  any  of  our  American 
schools.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  he  must  learn 
a  lesson  for  the  benefit  it  would  be  to  him  in  after-life. 
Learning  was  never  a  means,  to  Sam.  It  was  a  thing 
perfect  and  complete  in  itself.  His  idea  was  to  be  a 
student  always — if  only  the  world  would  grant  him  so 
much  of  happiness.  He  was  going  to  be  a  great  teacher 
— and  go  on  learning  always. 

"He  was  poor — so  poor  that  it  would  make  your  heart 
ache  when  you  thought  of  him.  Mighty  near  every- 
thing he  wore  came  from  his  mother's  loom.  He  never 
had  a  cent.  Even  in  '63,  when  the  whole  South  knew 
what  it  was  to  see  bankruptcy  coming  hell-bent,  Sam 
struck  you  as  being  a  whole  lot  poorer  than  the  other 
boys.  An  uncle  living  a  couple  of  miles  from  the  school 
gave  him  room  and  board — or  sold  them  to  him.  He 
worked  early  and  late  for  them:  before  and  after  school, 
.and  on  Saturdays.  Even  on  Sundays. 

"I  hardly  need  to  tell  you  what  the  feeling  was 
throughout  the  South  late  in  '63 — even  among  school- 
boys. There  wasn't  a  one  of  us  who  didn't  claim  that 
the  South  was  bound  to  win  the  war;  and  yet  I've  an 
idea  that  in  every  heart  a  spectre  sat — the  spectre  of 
defeat.  It  had  been  nip  and  tuck  for  a  long  time,  with 
the  eastern  armies  more  than  holding  their  own  against 
the  North.  But  in  the  west  Vicksburg  had  fallen  that 
year,  and  the  Mississippi  had  been  lost  to  the  Confeder- 


ROSY  127 

acy,  and  a  new  name  had  been  written  large  in  the  story 
of  the  war — the  name  of  Grant.  We  liked  to  boast  of 
what  would  happen  when  Grant  came  into  opposition 
to  Lee.  But  I  believe  most  of  us  were  already  beginning 
to  see  what  must  happen  to  our  cause  in  the  end.  We 
had  better  men — you  never  could  have  shaken  our  con- 
viction on  that  point;  but  the  North  had  more  of  them, 
infinitely  more.  The  power  of  the  North  was  like  time, 
or  like  water:  a  wearing  power  that  flesh  and  bone 
couldn't  resist.  And  still,  among  our  people  there  was 
no  let-up  to  the  sacrifices,  the  effort,  and  even  hope. 

"We  had  a  year  at  school,  Woodridge  and  I;  but  by 
the  end  of  '64  I'd  got  so  that  I  couldn't  look  into  a  book 
without  seeing  fearful  pictures:  Sheridan  riding  to  put 
an  end  to  new  hopes  we'd  entertained;  the  last  of  the 
Southern  ports  taken  by  the  Federals  when  Fort  Fisher 
fell,  so  that  the  blockade  was  complete;  the  wrecking 
of  the  Alabama  by  the  Kearsarge.  And  then  came  the 
crowning  horror,  Sherman's  march  through  Georgia. 

"You  can  imagine  what  must  have  been  running 
through  the  head  of  a  boy  who  had  turned  fifteen,  dur- 
ing that  time.  It  was  near  the  middle  of  December 
when  I  made  up  my  mind  what  I  must  do.  I  packed 
my  books  in  a  bundle  one  day  when  school  had  let  out. 
I  was  to  be  a  student  no  more.  I  was  going  to  the  war. 

"You  know  how  fanciful  a  boy  of  that  age  is? 
I  thought  of  myself  as  offering  my  services  to  General 
Lee  in  person.  I  think  I  imagined  I  should  go  into  battle 
with  his  eye  upon  me.  I  was  amazed  to  find  how  little 
I  had  to  do,  after  I  had  made  up  my  mind.  There  was 
really  only  one  thing:  I  must  tell  the  good  old  man 
who  had  been  my  instructor  what  I  meant  to  do.  This 
I  did.  And  then  of  course  I  must  tell  Woodridge  good-by. 

"He  had  his  desk  in  another  room;  and  I  went  to 
find  him,  hoping  he  might  not  have  gone  home  yet. 


128  ROSY 

"He  was  still  at  his  desk.  He  was  all  alone.  I  thought 
he  looked  startled  when  I  entered  the  door.  I  imagined 
myself  to  be  acting  very  calmly  when  I  approached 
him.  I  tried  to  keep  a  tremor  out  of  my  voice  when  I 
said,  'Hello,  Sam.'  And  I  added,  after  swallowing  hard, 
'I've  come  to  tell  you  good-by.' 

"I  thought  he  looked  at  me  curiously.  He  didn't 
speak  for  a  moment;  and  then  he  said,  in  his  quiet, 
slow  way — 'I'm  glad  you  came.  I'm  awfully  glad.' 
And  he  continued  to  look  at  me  in  a  way  which  I  couldn't 
understand.  I  sat  down  on  the  seat  across  the  aisle 
from  him;  and  after  a  bit  we  began  to  talk  about  the 
year  we  had  had  together.  We  went  over  a  lot  of  things, 
and  found  something  to  laugh  at  occasionally.  We 
didn't  mention  the  fact  that  we'd  grown  fond  of  each 
other,  of  course.  We  tried  to  keep  up  a  commonplace 
front;  and  we  talked  and  talked,  in  a  rambling  way. 
And  each  of  us  understood  that  the  other  was  pretending 
a  good  deal,  as  we  sat  there  and  talked  of  trivial  things. 

"At  last  I  got  up:  I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer. 
I  held  my  hand  out.  'Well,  good-by,  Sam/  I  said.  Til 
probably  not  see  you  in  the  morning.  I  want  to  get  an 
early  start/ 

"He  didn't  give  me  his  hand.  He  stood  staring  at 
me.  And  after  a  minute  he  said:  'You're  going  to  get 
an  early  start?  I  don't  understand.' 

"I  didn't  withdraw  my  hand.  'I  thought  you  knew 
what  I  meant,'  I  said.  'I'm  going  away  in  the  morning. 
I'm  going  to  offer  my  services  to  General  Lee.' 

"He  continued  to  look  at  me  strangely,  and  smiled 
in  his  queer,  reluctant  way.  'Oh,'  he  said  at  last,  'are 
you?  Then' — and  he  nodded  toward  his  desk,  where 
I  saw  that  his  books  had  been  all  tied  together  like  mine 
— 'Then  we'll  go  together.' 

"And  we  did." 


ROSY  129 

The  judge's  cigar  had  gone  out,  and  he  tossed  it  over 
the  railing.  He  produced  a  fresh  one,  and  searched 
for  his  cigar-cutter  again,  and  a  match.  No  one  broke 
the  silence  which  followed.  It  seemed  that  there  must 
be  something  more  to  the  story. 

"It  all  ended  not  very  long  after  that,"  continued 
the  judge;  "the  next  spring,  you  know.  The  last  day 
of  all  is  as  clear  to  me  as  if  it  had  been  yesterday.  I 
think  most  of  our  fellows  had  pretty  much  the  same 
feeling  you  have  when  the  first  spring  day  comes,  after 
a  long  winter.  But  for  myself  ...  I  remember  a  big, 
quiet  Yank  called  me  'boy,'  and  wanted  to  share  his 
rations  with  me.  I  was  hungry — I  remember  how  hun- 
gry : — but  I  gave  him  what  you  call  a  cold  look — very 
cold.  I  told  him  I  shouldn't  care  to  accept  any  courtesies 
from  him.  I  suppose  I  thought  I  was  better  than  Gen- 
eral Lee !  And  I  remember  how  he  just  looked  at  me 
sadly  and  flushed  and  turned  away.  I've  wished  often 
since — many  and  many  a  time — that  I  could  meet  that 
man  just  once  again  and  show  him  something  a  little 
nearer  his  own  quality. 

"I  remember  how  ugly  they  looked  to  me  then — 
those  Yankee  soldiers:  with  their  odd  cocked  hats  which 
seemed  to  slouch  forward,  and  their  hideous  uniforms. 
•  Our  uniforms  .  .  .  why,  most  of  our  fellows  didn't  have 
shoes  that  matched.  Some  didn't  have  shoes  at  all. 
We  were  tricked  out  in  what  one  of  our  fellows  called 
etceterys.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  that's  about  all  the  South 
had  to  fight  with  during  the  last  year  or  so — etceterys. 
You  see,  I  was  still  a  rebel.  Dad  burned  if  I  don't  be- 
lieve even  yet  if  you  woke  me  sudden  out  of  a  sound 
sleep  I'd  be  mostly  rebel — for  a  minute  or  two. 

"I  went  back  to  school  the  next  fall;  but  Sam  Wood- 
ridge  never  came  back.  It  seemed  he  had  to  go  home 
and  take  care  of  his  mother.  They  owned  a  little  hill- 


130  RC/SY 

side  farm  somewhere  in  Virginia.  And  Sam's  father 
and  his  older  brother,  who  had  gone  through  four  years 
of  the  war  without  a  scratch,  both  fell  the  day  Rich- 
mond surrendered.  And  Sam's  mother  had  some  sort 
of  breakdown.  She  had  to  be  cared  for  the  same  as  a 
child — and  there  was  no  one  but  Sam  to  do  it.  She 
lived  for  four  years,  and  by  that  time  it  was  too  late 
for  Sam  to  think  of  going  to  school  any  more.  He'd 
sent  for  his  old  schoolbooks,  and  he  went  on  with  his 
studies  at  home — but  you  know  that  never  amounts 
to  much,  somehow. 

"And  then  I  lost  track  of  him.  I  found  him  again 
by  accident,  years  afterward,  here  in  the  Arkansas 
mountains — after  I'd  been  settled  in  Little  Rock,  prac- 
tising law,  for  a  long  while. 

"It  seemed  he'd  taken  to  teaching  school  in  a  fashion: 
hunting  out  obscure,  impoverished  little  neighborhoods, 
where  the  young  people  were  growing  up  wild,  mostly: 
and  he  taught  them  for  whatever  they  could  afford  to 
pay  him.  I've  heard  that  he  used  to  send  part  of  their 
money  back  to  poor  families  who  could  least  afford  to 
pay. 

"I've  always  believed  he  could  have  done  better  as 
a  teacher  than  he  did.  He  might  have  got  a  professor- 
ship in  some  little  college,  I  think — or  I've  no  doubt 
he  could  have  got  to  be  principal  of  a  small-town  school. 
I  think  the  way  he  felt  about  it  ...  can  you  imagine 
a  man  with  character  and  knowledge  enough  to  be  an 
archbishop  refusing  to  be  just  a  priest,  if  the  chance 
came,  and  preferring  to  be  a  missionary?  I've  an  idea 
that's  the  way  Sam  felt. 

"He  taught  a  handful  of  God-forsaken  urchins  here 
in  the  shadow  of  Moab  for  a  few  years,  and  then  he 
met  Rosy's  mother.  Rosy's  mother  .  .  .  well,  when 
you  see  Rosy,  you  see  her  mother  all  over  again.  I  don't 


ROSY  131 

know  how  she  happened  to  fall  in  love  with  a  middle- 
aged  soldier.  You  know  there's  no  explaining  such 
things.  But  they  were  so  happy  together  that  you  felt 
almost  afraid  for  them — you've  felt  that  way  about 
people  sometimes?  And  so  a  good  many  things  were 
made  right  for  Sam.  I  think  if  you'd  come  to  strike 
a  balance  you'd  find  that  he  got  more  joy  out  of  life 
than  most  men  do. 

"But  I  never  go  along  the  bench  road  where  the  old 
stone  wall  is — the  wall  he  never  finished — without  re- 
calling a  certain  look  in  his  eyes,  when  he'd  be  casting 
about  for  a  rock  of  a  certain  size  and  shape.  He  used 
to  say,  with  that  half -smile  of  his,  'I'll  never  finish  my 
wall,  you  know,' — as  if  he  knew  that  destiny  meant 
that  he  should  never  finish  anything.  But  I  don't  know 
.  .  .  sometimes  I  fancy  Sam's  wall  will  go  on  to  the 
last  fine,  fit  stone — off  yonder  where  he  is  now,  with 
Rosy's  mother. 

"Yes,  yes  indeed — I  knew  Rosy's  father  well." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

AT  the  very  moment  when  Judge  Powell  was  say- 
ing— "Yes,  I  knew  Rosy's  father  well,"  Mrs.  Powell 
awoke  out  of  a  sound  sleep  with  just  one  clear  thought 
in  mind:  she  must  immediately  begin  preparations  for 
taking  Rosy  back  to  Little  Rock,  when  the  summer 
was  ended.  Almost  every  one  must  have  had  occasion 
to  observe  that  when  two  persons  have  spent  long  and 
sympathetic  years  together  they  frequently  think  of 
the  same  thing  at  the  same  time,  even  when  they  are 
apart  from  each  other.  Coincidence,  it  may  be — or  is 
it  what  is  called  telepathy? 

Whatever  may  be  the  explanation  of  such  things, 
it  is  a  fact  that  Judge  Powell  held  the  dial  of  his  watch 
toward  the  dim  light  of  the  hotel  window  after  he  had 
completed  his  little  story  about  Rosy's  father,  and  re- 
marked that  it  was  just  fifteen  minutes  past  one;  and 
the  next  morning  Mrs.  Powell  related  to  her  husband 
how  she  had  awakened  the  night  before  with  a  kind 
of  startled  consciousness  of  Rosy  and  her  needs  in  mind, 
and  how  she  had  turned  the  light  on  and  looked  at  the 
clock  and  noted  that  it  was  precisely  a  quarter  past 
one. 

"I  am  afraid  it  means  she  has  some  special  need  of 
us,"  said  Mrs.  Powell,  as  she  and  the  judge  sat  at  their 
late  breakfast. 

Whereat  the  judge  laughed  easily  and  cautioned  her 
lightly  against  permitting  herself  to  become  fanciful. 
But  nevertheless  they  agreed  that  it  was  a  charming 

132 


ROSY  133 

morning  for  a  walk,  and  that  the  bench  road  would 
surely  be  an  attractive  place  in  the  forenoon,  and  that 
there  would  be  nothing  amiss  in  calling  on  Rosy.  In- 
deed, the  call  on  Rosy  had  been  waiting  for  nothing 
more  than  a  coincidental  inclination. 

They  did  not  attempt  the  short  cut  by  the  almost 
perpendicular  steps.  Mrs.  Powell  always  made  instinc- 
tive selection  of  the  courses  which  became  her,  and  a 
lady  can  only  look  comical  when  she  climbs  a  ladder. 
One  remembers  how  audiences  used  to  laugh  at  charm- 
ing Ethel  B  anymore  when  she  climbed  the  ladder  in 
her  play,  Sunday.  Mrs.  Powell  did  not  wish  to  look 
comical — and  of  course  there  was  no  need  to  be  in  a 
hurry. 

They  walked  slowly  across  the  campus-like  grounds 
surrounding  the  hotel,  and  disappeared  amid  the  trees 
at  the  far  verge  of  the  plateau.  Mrs.  Powell  was  dressed 
in  white  silk  of  an  almost  gauze-like  texture:  white, 
yet  with  a  tone  of  silver  in  it,  to  match  her  hair;  and 
she  carried  a  white  silk  parasol  to  which  she  subtly  im- 
parted the  character  of  an  ornament,  rather  than  a  thing 
of  prosaic  utility.  There  wasn't  a  man  on  the  veranda, 
old  or  young,  who  didn't  watch  her  until  she  was  out 
of  sight. 

"What  I  strongly  suspect,"  said  Mrs.  Powell,  as  she 
and  her  husband  began  to  descend  the  road  which  led 
to  the  bench,  "is  that  you've  got  some  notion  about 
Rosy  that  you  haven't  let  me  know  about — some  ro- 
mantic belief  in  her  being  happier  where  she  is  now  than 
she  could  be  anywhere  else." 

The  judge  looked  at  her  sharply — or  rather  he  looked 
at  a  section  of  silk  parasol  sharply.  Mrs.  Powell's  face 
was  not  visible  just  at  that  moment.  "The  truth  is, 
I  have  got  some  such  notion,"  he  confessed.  "She  is 
almost  singularly  happy  now.  Of  course,  it  may  be 


134  ROSY 

something  that  she  carries  within  her:  something  that 
she  could  take  with  her  anywhere.  Though  I'm  in- 
clined to  doubt  that." 

"It  is  something  within  her.  It's  very  largely  her 
health  and  her  youth.  But  she'll  not  have  them  always. 
At  least  she'll  not  have  her  youth.  Try  to  picture  her 
as  a  middle-aged  woman  living  here  on  the  bench  in 
winter  as  well  as  summer — with  a  mind  that  hasn't 
gone  on  developing  and  finding  interests  to  take  the 
place  of  the  things  that  are  all-sufficient  while  she's 
only  a  child." 

The  judge  frowned.  "I  can't  picture  it,"  he  said. 
"At  least,  I  don't  want  to.  What's  to  prevent  her  mind 
from  developing  ?  " 

She  shifted  the  parasol  so  that  she  could  look  into 
his  face.  "You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  that  question," 
she  said  with  a  certain  serenity.  "She  requires  educa- 
tion— you  know  she  does." 

He  was  quite  dismayed.  "You  mean  schoolmasters? 
— and  Greek  and  Latin?" 

She  affected  an  air  of  one  who  is  patient  despite  real 
provocation.  "I  don't  mean  that,"  she  said.  "Poor 
child — it's  probably  too  late  for  that.  But  after  all, 
those  things  are  largely  incidental.  What  I  mean  is 
that  she  must  learn  how  to  dress,  and  how  to  meet  people, 
and  how  to  listen  and  observe — things  of  that  kind." 

He  chose  to  single  out  only  one  of  the  necessities  she 
had  mentioned.  "To  meet  people?"  he  repeated.  "It 
wouldn't  occur  to  me  that  she  didn't  know  how  to  do 
that.  Do  you  know,  if  I'd  ever  picked  a  pocket — either 
figuratively  or  otherwise — I'd  rather  undergo  a  third- 
degree  examination  from  a  whole  passel  of  sleuths  than 
to  look  Rosy  in  the  face.  I  would,  for  a  fact." 

She  smiled  her  ready  comprehension  of  this.  "It's 
true,  isn't  it?"  she  replied.  And  then,  as  if  she  were 


ROSY  135 

restoring  their  conversation  to  pertinent  matters,  she 
went  on:  "But  of  course  she'll  never  have  many  oc- 
casions for  meeting  pickpockets.  What  I  was  thinking 
about  was  her  training  for  the  inevitable  things  of  life — 
for  life  as  a  whole." 

"Of  course,"  he  admitted;  but  after  an  interval  he 
added:  "What  sort  of  training  have  you  got  in  mind 
for  her?" 

"Oh,"  she  replied,  "I  shouldn't  call  it  training,  per- 
haps. But  she  ought  to  do  certain  things  that  other 
women  do.  She  ought  to  go  to  a  play  once  in  a  while 
— a  good  play.  She  ought  to  hear  a  symphony.  She 
ought  to  meet  the  kind  of  people  who  lead." 

He  interrupted:  "There's  a  sort  of  cruel  streak  in 
you,  honey,  after  all." 

She  smiled  with  gentle  contempt  for  his  crude  humor. 
"She  ought  to  meet  a  greater  number  of  people,"  she 
went  on.  "When  we  go  to  St.  Louis  we  could  take  her 
with  us  and  show  her  about  a  bit.  Imagine  her  in  Shaw's 
Garden,  for  instance !" 

"I  don't  get  much  pleasure  in  doing  so,"  he  rejoined. 
"Do  you  know,  I  have  a  suspicion  that  all  the  things 
you  have  named  are  meant  mostly  for  people  who  can't 
have  the  things  they  would  love  a  great  deal  more.^  A 
symphony  always  sounded  to  me  like  something  that 
had  been  composed  by  a  man  in  prison — for  other  fellows 
in  prison/)  It's  my  idea  that  plays  were  invented  for 
bachelors  in  the  cities — ballroom  boys — who  hadn't 
time  to  go  back  home  when  they  wanted  to  see  men 
and  women  and  children  quarrelling  and  fussing  and 
gossiping  and  cuttin'  up.  Something  to  remind  them 
of  home.  Rosy  is  home.  What  would  be  the  good  of 
making  her  homesick  just  so  you  could  give  her  medicine 
for  homesickness  ?  " 

She   answered   serenely:   "That's   the   trouble  with 


136  ROSY 

being  a  lawyer;  it  makes  you  see  everything  in  that 
absurd  way.  Of  course  you're  not  speaking  seriously. 
You  might  just  as  well  say  that  education  is  all  make- 
believe.  You  might  as  well  get  out  one  of  your  injunc- 
tions against  evolution.  For  my  part,  I'm  glad  I  don't 
have  to  walk  on  all  fours,  as  I  suppose  my  ancestors 
did.  Imagine  the  condition  one's  skirts  would  be  in ! " 

He  called  her  attention  to  a  break  in  the  foliage  on 
the  mountain  slope  through  which  a  limitless  vista  of 
plain  and  river  was  visible.  And  she  exclaimed  graciously 
— "Ah,  it  is  fine!"  But  almost  immediately  resuming 
her  progress  she  went  on:  "...  Does  she  live  all 
alone?" 

"Quite  alone,  I'm  sure.  There  are  her  ' critters,'  of 
course.  But — yes,  she  lives  alone." 

"It  mustn't  be  allowed,"  she  declared.  "There  are 
certain  things  .  .  .  it's  supposed  to  be  a  tragedy  when 
a  woman  has  to  do  all  her  own  cooking.  But  think  of 
her  having  to  do  all  her  own  eating!  Can't  you  see  it 
isn't  right?  And  a  woman  ...  I  don't  care  who  she 
is,  if  she's  a  woman,  she  wants  some  one  to  comfort  in 
the  morning,  and  some  one  to  comfort  her  at  night. 
We're  going  to  take  her  to  Little  Rock  with  us.  I'm 
going  to  see  that  she's  saved." 

They  walked  a  little  way  in  silence;  but  at  length 
she  continued:  "Of  course,  she'll  be  married  some  day, 
even  if  we  should  leave  her  to  herself.  But  you  know 
what  the  end  would  be.  There's  the  story  of  Maud 
Mutter  .  .  .  ."  Her  face  became  dreamily  sad. 

He  laughed  comfortably.  "I  never  took  much  stock 
in  the  story  of  Maud  Mutter"  he  declared.  "Maud 
may  have  had  pretty  thin  picking  now  and  then  on  ac- 
count of  marrying  the  man  who  was  '  unlearned  and 
poor/  But  it  always  seemed  to  me  that  if  'many  chil- 
dren played  round  her  door'  she  had  sources  of  consola- 


ROSY  137 

tion  that  silks  and  carriages  couldn't  have  given  her. 
And  for  all  we  know  she  married  a  good  deal  of  a  man — 
which  she'd  not  have  done  if  she'd  married  the  judge. 
A  poor  creature,  clearly.  He  was  afraid  of  his  sisters, 
I  believe.  Can  you  beat  that?" 

She  seemed  to  withdraw  her  attention  from  him. 
"I've  an  idea  all  judges  are  rather  foolish,"  she  said. 

Neither  spoke  for  a  time;  and  the  difference  of  opin- 
ion between  them  was  by  no  means  so  clearly  defined 
that  it  could  disturb  the  harmony  between  them.  The 
mountain  road  was  beautiful,  touched  by  alternating 
spots  of  sun  and  shade.  The  wooded  slope  above  them 
afforded  a  harbor  for  many  birds  that  twittered  fitfully, 
and  appeared  and  disappeared.  The  whole  mountain 
wore  a  wonderful  garment  of  green  leafage  and  golden 
sunshine.  The  quietude  was  like  a  benediction. 

"This  is  her  home!"  said  the  judge  dreamily.  The 
way  narrowed  and  he  moved  on  ahead.  She  saw  that 
he  walked  in  a  rather  labored  way.  She  recalled  his 
elastic  step  in  other  years,  and  her  face  softened  and 
she  looked  after  him  with  yearning.  When  the  way 
broadened  again  he  waited  for  her  and  turned  to  look 
at  her.  In  response  to  something  he  seemed  to  read 
in  her  eyes  he  said  briskly:  "I  should  have  put  on  a  dif- 
ferent pair  of  shoes.  These  I'm  wearing  are  a  little  light 
for  a  mountain  walk." 

She  replied  gently  yet  lightly:  "I  should  have  thought 
of  that  for  you."  But  his  words  of  defense  seemed  even 
more  significant  to  her  than  his  labored  walk. 

Presently  he  said:  "You  know  I'm  not  really  opposed 
to  your  taking  Rosy  home  with  you — if  she'll  go.  It's 
only  that  I  don't  feel  so  confident  that  our  way  is  better 
than  her  way  as  I  might  have  felt  when  I  was  younger. 
There  was  a  time  when  it  wouldn't  have  seemed  to  me 
a  formidable  thing  to  try  to  change  a  human  being's 


i38  ROSY 

destiny.  I  suppose  we  lose  a  certain  kind  of  assurance 
as  we  grow  older." 

"Yes,  that's  true,"  she  said  pleasantly.  "I  shouldn't 
wish  to  urge  it  too  strongly,  you  know.  Perhaps  we'll  be 
quite  safe  in  letting  her  decide  the  question  for  herself." 

A  lighter  humor  was  restored  when  she  said,  presently: 
"What  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  is  that  she  may  finally 
marry  some  dreadfully  poor  fellow,  if  she  goes  on  living 
here,"  and  he  replied  with  a  smile: 

"Ah,  but  he  wouldn't  be  a  poor  fellow  if  he  got  Rosy." 

Again  they  stopped  at  an  opening  in  the  foliage  where 
a  magnificent  vista  of  river  was  revealed.  A  faint  boom- 
ing sound  reached  them,  and  she  asked  him  what  the 
sound  meant. 

"You  can  see  them  at  work,  if  you'll  look  closely," 
he  said,  " — the  men  in  the  quarry  down  by  the  river. 
Do  you  see  that  mountain  spur  that  stretches  down 
to  the  river's  edge?  They  are  there.  A  fellow  named 
Minturn  has  a  quarry  over  there.  He's  a  planter  on 
a  pretty  big  scale;  but  I  believe  he's  a  money-grubber, 
and  he  makes  a  good  bit  out  of  his  quarries  too.  I  be- 
lieve he  hires  the  work  done,  mostly.  He  has  a  manager 
to  run  the  quarry." 

As  they  looked  a  puff  of  smoke  appeared  high  up  on 
the  distant  spur,  and  masses  of  rock  were  thrown  into 
the  air.  Then  the  booming  sound  reached  them  again. 
"Did  you  see  it?"  he  asked. 

.  .  .  They  did  not  stop  again  until  they  were  nearly 
at  their  journey's  end.  But  for  an  instant  Mrs.  Powell 
detained  the  judge  when  they  were  about  to  pass  under 
the  shadow  of  the  Sphinx  Rock.  They  had  often  ob- 
served it  before;  but  now  she  said:  "It's  almost  un- 
canny, isn't  it? — the  way  it  clings  to  its  place.  It 
wouldn't  be  pleasant  to  be  here,  would  it,  if  it  should 
ever  fall?" 


ROSY  139 

"But  it  can't  fall,"  he  replied.  "If  the  earth  were 
all  washed  away,  so  we  could  see  how  it  forms  part  of 
the  vast  mass  beneath  it,  we'd  probably  think  no  more 
of  its  falling  than  we  should  of  a  small  limb  on  an  im- 
mense tree." 

Rosy  received  them  with  a  delight  which  was  not 
to  be  mistaken;  yet  with  a  certain  reserve,  too.  She 
seemed  self-conscious — as  she  had  never  seemed  before. 
Mrs.  Powell  afterward  denned  her  manner — "It  was 
as  if  she  were  listening  for  other  sounds  while  she  lis- 
tened to  what  we  said." 

But  this  hint  of  discomfort  passed  after  a  little  while 
and  Rosy  was  quite  herself  again.  Indeed,  it  was  Mrs. 
Powell  rather  than  Rosy  who  seemed  to  be  at  a  loss 
for  words  before  the  visit  ended.  She  sat  as  if  she  were 
wholly  at  ease  in  the  chair  Rosy  placed  for  her  under 
the  shotgun  on  its  wooden  pegs  on  the  wall.  She  drew 
a  deep  breath  of  contentment  as  she  relaxed  in  her  chair. 
She  seemed  not  in  the  least  conscious  that  Rosy's  home 
was  almost  as  barren  of  comforts  as  a  hermit's.  She 
found  many  things  to  praise:  the  cool  shadow  of  the 
bench,  the  neighborly  aspects  of  the  cottages  farther 
down  the  road;  the  cultivated  slopes,  with  their  vines 
and  fruit-trees — "like  a  garden-spot  somewhere  in  Eu- 
rope," she  thought  it. 

"But  Rosy,  child,  you  do  get  lonesome  sometimes, 
don't  you?"  she  asked  at  length,  in  a  tone  of  troubled 
entreaty. 

The  judge  sat,  fitting  his  finger-tips  together,  his  eyes 
on  the  floor,  his  own  opinion  judicially  withheld. 

"I  know  what  it  is  to  be  alone,"  said  Rosy  cheer- 
fully, "though  I  suppose  that's  not  quite  the  same  as 
being  lonely,  is  it?" 

Mrs.  Powell  conceded  this  point  by  a  slight  inclina- 


140  ROSY 

tion  of  her  head;  and  she  spoke  of  other  matters  be- 
fore she  said,  as  if  the  thought  had  just  occurred  to  her: 
"We're  rather  counting,  the  judge  and  I,  on  a  visit  from 
you  this  winter,  Rosy.  You  know  you've  never  been 
to  see  us,  though  you've  often  promised  to  come.  And 
we  were  saying  the  other  day  that  it  ought  to  be  easy 
for  you  to  close  your  house  for  the  winter — or  for  a  good 
part  of  it — and  come  to  us." 

Rosy's  laughter  bubbled  forth  spontaneously;  her 
face  was  flushed  with  pleasure.  "If  I  only  could !"  she 
said.  "But  of  course  I  couldn't."  She  did  not  explain 
why  she  could  not. 

"Couldn't?"  echoed  Mrs.  Powell  gently. 

"A  house,"  said  Rosy,  ".  .  .  there's  something  strange 
about  a  house,  after  you've  lived  in  it  by  yourself.  It's 
like  a  person.  It  wants  to  boss  you.  If  you  go  away 
even  for  the  littlest  while  it  seems  to  say  severely : '  You'd 
better  hurry  back ! '  You  understand  that,  don't  you  ? 
I  can't  say  just  how  it  is.  Maybe  it's  your  own  self 
keeping  a  close  watch  on  your  other  self.  You  know 
when  you  live  in  a  house  you  put  a  lot  into  it  besides 
just  furniture.  You  put  something  into  it  that  fills 
the  air  and  is  a  part  of  the  silence.  If  you  go  out,  you 
leave  it  there  behind  you.  Only,  if  you  stayed  away 
too  long,  I  think  it  wouldn't  be  there  when  you  came 
back.  And  you  could  take  your  hat  off  and  say  'I'm 
home  again ! '  but  you'd  really  know  that  something 
was  gone,  and  you'd  wonder  what  it  was,  and  where 
it  was.  It  would  take  a  long  time  to  get  it  back  again. 
Maybe  you  never  could!"  She  laughed  again — but 
this  time  a  little  wistfully. 

"Yes,  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Powell  softly;  "but 
.  .  .  we're  very  much  in  earnest  about  wishing  to  have 
you  come." 

Rosy  hung  her  head  and  a  troubled  smile  played  about 


ROSY  141 

her  lips.  "If  I  only  could !"  she  said.  "But  you  know 
this  is  my  place  here,  don't  you  ?  " 

"It's  a  lovely  place — indeed  it  is !  But  we  wish  you 
to  feel  that  other  places  are  yours,  too.  Our  home,  you 
know.  I  hope  you'd  be  quite  happy  with  us." 

"If  there  were  some  one  to  keep  things  running  for 
me,"  demurred  Rosy.  "But  places — they're  like  houses, 
only  more  so.  They  speak  to  you,  and  you  get  comfort 
from  them.  I've  always  felt  that  if  I  were  to  leave  my 
place  I'd  never  und  another  one." 

"But,  Rosy,  dear — you  mustn't  allow  yourself  to 
feel  bound.  You  must  be  free,  you  know.  There  isn't 
any  reason  why  you  shouldn't  feel  free." 

Rosy's  glance  journeyed  through  the  open  door  and 
down  the  bench  road.  "I  was  talking  to  Mrs.  Feld 
one  day,"  she  said,  with  an  absent  expression  in  her 
eyes.  "There  was  a  canary  in  the  window,  in  a  cage. 
And  I  wondered  if  its  eyes  carried  like  mine — if  it  could 
see  all  the  miles  away  that  I  could  see.  I  said  to  Mrs. 
Feld,  'It  seems  a  pity  to  keep  the  little  thing  in  a  cage, 
doesn't  it — I  mean,  any  bird?'  And  she  told  me  that 
it  was  at  home  in  its  cage,  and  that  if  she  were  to  set 
it  free  it  would  pine  away  and  die.  I've  thought  of  that 
a  good  many  times.  And  sometimes  it's  seemed  to  me 
that  the  only  happy  people  are  those  who  have  some 
kind  of  a  cage  to  be  in.  You  know  what  I  mean?  To 
be  really  free  ...  I  think  maybe  that's  the  one  thing 
I  couldn't  bear." 

The  judge's  eyes  were  beaming  at  a  little  sunshaft 
which  crept  across  the  floor;  but  Mrs.  Powell  said: 
"Well,  dear  .  .  ."  And  then  she  smiled  too.  "One 
mustn't  be  too  fanciful,"  she  added.  "Perhaps  you'll 
find  some  one  to — to  keep  things  going  for  you.  We'll 
not  press  the  matter.  But  you'll  think  about  visiting 
us,  won't  you,  when  you  can?  We  want  you  to  know 
that  we  wish  it  very  much." 


142  ROSY 

.  .  .  They  returned  up  the  mountain  a  little  later, 
speaking  of  anything  save  Rosy's  seeming  obstinacy. 
But  just  before  they  reached  the  summit  Mrs.  Powell 
remarked:  "When  she  becomes  accustomed  to  the  idea 
she'll  look  at  it  differently.  We  must  give  her  time." 

And  the  judge,  who  was  beginning  to  breathe  with 
some  difficulty,  replied — "Eh? — time?  Oh,  yes.  Yes, 
there'll  be  time  yet." 


CHAPTER  XV 

IF  life  seemed  to  Rosy  an  interesting  and  stimulating 
thing  during  those  days,  she  was  ready  to  confess  to 
herself  that  it  was  becoming  rather  more  exciting  than 
she  cared  to  have  it,  and  so  filled  with  complications 
that  something  was  pretty  sure  to  happen  before  long. 

There  had  been  that  letter  from  France,  which  she 
would  not  have  discussed  with  any  one — least  of  all, 
perhaps,  with  the  man  who  was  almost  a  constant  com- 
panion. He  had  never  asked  her  about  the  letter:  he 
had  preferred  to  pretend  that  he  had  heard  nothing 
the  Feld  girls  had  said  when  they  came  to  bring  the 
letter.  And  Rosy  knew  quite  well  why  he  had  never 
spoken  to  her  about  the  letter,  and  occasionally  in  secret 
she  smiled. 

It  was  like  a  fairy-tale — all  that  that  letter  meant 
to  her.  But  it  was  like  other  fairy-tales  in  that  it  must 
be  considered  with  caution,  lest  its  improbabilities  be- 
come obvious. 

There  was  also  the  secret  of  her  house  to  be  guarded — 
a  secret  which  became  to  her  far  more  sacred  with  every- 
day that  passed,  especially  since  she  had  received  that 
second  letter.  She  could  not  speak  to  the  Powells  of 
her  hidden  guest,  kind  and  generous  as  they  were.  No, 
not  to  the  Powells.  Least  of  all  to  the  Powells ! 

And  always  there  was  the  fear  that  some  one  might 
blunder  across  her  threshold  at  the  wrong  time;  or  that 
persons  in  authority  might  come  and  demand  admittance 
— that  betrayal  would  overtake  her  at  last  and  give 
her  the  appearance,  even  to  her  most  faithful  friends, 
of  a  sly  person,  hiding  things  and  speaking  only  half 
the  truth. 

143 


144  ROSY 

And  then  vague  fears  gave  place  to  a  more  or  less 
definite  black  cloud  which  appeared  on  her  horizon  and 
threatened  to  cover  all  her  sky.  It  crossed  her  vision 
at  a  moment  when  she  was  talking  to  Jacob  Feld. 

Early  in  the  morning  following  the  Powells'  visit  she 
set  out  for  Feld's  spring,  to  fetch  fresh  water.  She  walked 
with  a  bucket  in  either  hand;  and  contrary  to  her  wont 
at  this  hour  she  did  not  seem  vividly  alive  to  all  the 
phenomena  about  her:  the  actual  battle  hymn  of  the 
sunshine  as  it  awakened  the  mountain's  verdure  to  life, 
and  the  crescendo  of  small  creatures'  voices,  the  birds 
and  squirrels  which  were  beginning  their  day's  adven- 
tures. 

She  was  in  a  strangely  introspective  mood,  as  if  she 
had  just  thought  of  something  which  disturbed  her: 
as  if  she  were  indeed  a  day  older  than  she  had  been  the 
day  before,  and  possessed  new  responsibilities.  In  brief 
she  was  pondering  deeply,  even  darkly.  If  she  had  met 
an  acquaintance  on  the  way,  that  acquaintance  would 
certainly  have  said:  "What's  the  matter,  Rosy? — you 
look  troubled."  [If  conscience  makes  cowards  of  us,  kind- 
ness also  saps  the  power  by  which  we  carry  on  deeds  of 
duplicity;  and  Rosy  was  thinking  of  what  the  Powells 
had  said  to  her  yesterday. 

However,  she  encountered  no  acquaintances.  It 
was  so  early  that  even  the  bench-folk  were  not  yet  astir. 
There  was  not  a  sign  of  life  about  the  Springers'  house, 
or  the  Felds'.  The  sun  searched  out  every  part  of  the 
galleries  and  verandas  without  discovering  a  single  mov- 
ing object.  One  might  have  supposed  that  the  two 
families  had  gone  away  somewhere  to  spend  the  day 
but  for  that  revealing,  delicious  feel  of  the  very  early 
morning  which  was  still  in  the  air  and  which  explained 
clearly  enough  that  most  folk  very  certainly  would  not 
have  awakened  as  yet. 


ROSY  145 

She  received  a  little  shock  of  glad  surprise  when  she 
reached  the  path  that  led  down  to  the  spring.  Some 
one  was  there;  and  she  knew  almost  without  a  second 
glance  that  it  was  Jacob  Feld.  He  was  at  work  in  that 
slow,  placid  way  of  his;  and  the  fancy  occurred  to  her 
again  that  he  seemed  more  like  the  genius  of  the  spring 
than  a  material  householder  on  the  bench.  You  might 
have  supposed  that  it  was  neither  morning  nor  night 
to  him,  but  that  he  had  been  just  where  he  was,  and 
as  he  was,  always:  guarding  the  spring  and  presiding 
over  it. 

He  was  repairing  a  broken  spot  in  the  pavement; 
it  seemed  that  he  could  always  find  something  to  do. 
It  might  have  been  supposed  that  he  would  pine  away 
and  die  if  the  spring  setting  were  ever  to  attain  per- 
fection and  he  could  never  again  find  any  way  of  better- 
ing it.  He  straightened  up  and  smiled  as  Rosy  went 
down  the  path  toward  him. 

She  became  beamingly  alert  instantly.  She  went 
to  where  the  water  flowed  from  a  pipe  fitted  into  the 
rock,  and  placed  one  of  her  buckets  beneath  the  de- 
scending water.  She  put  the  other  bucket  down  near 
by  to  await  its  turn;  and  then  she  sat  down  on  one  of 
the  hickory  seats  of  Jacob  Feld's  making.  She  patted 
the  seat  beside  her  and  looked  up  at  him,  smiling.  A  ray 
of  sunlight  found  her  face  as  she  did  so  and  burnished 
her  hair  wonderfully.  "Have  the  boys  taken  your  cup 
away  any  more  ?  "  she  asked. 

Old  Feld  shook  his  head  absent-mindedly.  It  was 
plain  that  something  more  momentous  than  the  theft 
of  the  cup  occupied  his  mind.  He  sat  down  by  Rosy 
and  gazed  at  her  intently,  kindly. 

She  thought:  "He's  going  to  scold  me,  and  he  wants 
to  begin  by  reminding  me  that  he  is  a  good  friend." 

If  he  meant  to  scold  her  he  did  not  come  to  the  point 


\l 


146  ROSY 

directly.  He  looked  away  from  her,  his  gaze  wandering 
down  the  mountainside.  And  presently  he  said,  as  if 
the  thought  had  just  occurred  to  him:  "Did  it  ever  seem 
strange  to  you,  Rosy,  that  they  never  found  Zeb  Nanny, 
and  never  heard  of  him?" 

Her  face  did  not  move,  but  her  eyes  did.  They  were 
turned  away  from  him.  She  thought:  "I  wonder  if  he's 
going  to  try  to  trap  me?"  She  replied,  without  moving: 
"I  can't  say  it  ever  did."  She  tried  to  seem  wholly  un- 
concerned. 

They  sat  side  by  side  for  a  long  silent  interval,  Feld 
looking  down  the  obscure  gorge  into  which  the  flow  of 
the  spring  disappeared,  after  refreshing  great  masses 
of  fern  and  creating  broad  banks  of  moss.  A  redbird 
was  dancing  from  limb  to  limb,  from  tree  to  tree,  farther 
away  from  him,  down  into  the  invisible  region  of  tree- 
tops  and  precipices  and  abysses.  Its  signal  note  grew 
fainter  and  fainter. 

He  seemed  to  find  it  difficult  to  go  on  with  what  he  had 
to  say.  "I  was  afraid  we'd  find  him,"  he  said  finally, 
"the  first  week  or  so  after  he  disappeared.  I  was  afraid 
he'd  be  found — dead.  But  I've  got  another  idea  now, 
on  account  they  never  found  him.  I  think  he  did  run 
away,  after  all.  But  .  .  .  how  could  he  get  away — with 
the  penitentiary  people  putting  things  in  the  paper: 
notices,  and  how  he  looked,  and  such  things?  Like  he 
was  a  horse.  Why  wouldn't  somebody  find  him,  and 
maybe  give  him  a  bed  to  sleep  in,  and  then  send  for  an 
officer?  What  I'm  thinking,  Rosy,  is  that  somebody 
must  have  helped  him.  They  could  give  him  a  room, 
you  know,  and  give  him  food.  But  if  they  did  .  .  .  you 
know  it  wouldn't  be  safe  for  him  to  come  out  for  years — 
you  might  say  never." 

Rosy  had  not  moved.  "Maybe  somebody  did  help 
him,"  she  suggested. 


ROSY  147 

"Well  .  .  .  yes."  He  stirred  uneasily.  Rosy  had 
the  feeling  that  he  wished  her  to  turn  her  face  toward 
him,  so  that  he  might  repeat  that  gaze  of  friendly  as- 
surance. But  she  did  not  face  him.  And  presently  he 
went  on 

"Rosy,  you've  been  over  by  Zeb's  father,  since  Zeb 
ran  away — no?" 

Something  in  his  troubled  tone  impelled  her  to  face 
him  at  last.  "Mr.  Feld,"  she  said,  "you  can  say  what- 
ever it  is  you  want  to  say  to  me.  I  know  you  wouldn't 
ask  questions  unless  you  had  a  good  reason.  Yes,  I  did 
go  to  see  Zeb's  father.  That  isn't  all.  I've  done  so  several 
times." 

He  smiled  with  infinite  relief.  He  patted  her  hand 
lightly,  where  it  lay  beside  him  on  the  bench.  "That's 
a  good  girl,  Rosy!"  he  said.  And  then  after  an  interval 
of  silence — "You  didn't  know  Zeb's  father,  Rosy,  before 
Zeb  ran  away — no?" 

"Why,  really  ...  no,  I  never  did." 

"So.  But  you  went  to  see  him,  several  times, 
since  .  .  .?" 

"Yes."  In  spite  of  herself  a  note  of  defiance,  of  aloof- 
ness, had  come  into  her  voice.  And  when  the  old  man 
seemed  to  find  it  difficult  to  proceed  she  went  on  impet- 
uously: "I  had  heard  about  their  troubles — Zeb's  and 
his  father's.  I  think  it  was  shameful,  the  way  they  had 
been  treated.  It  was,  too!  And  I  told  Zeb's  father  I 
knew  Zeb  hadn't  done  anything  he  need  to  be  ashamed 
of — or  his  father,  either.  It  put  heart  into  him.  And 
oh,  Mr.  Feld,  he  needed  that!  I  was  glad  I  went.  I 
shall  go  again,  too." 

The  old  man  sat  beside  her  frowning  in  perplexity; 
and  after  a  moment  he  asked,  unexpectedly:  "But  Rosy 
...  do  you  happen  to  know  Tom  Lott?" 

She  glanced  at  him  in  frank  surprise  now.    "Lott!" 


148  ROSY 

she  repeated  in  a  voice  not  like  her  own.  And  when  she 
went  no  further  he  continued: 

"If  it  wasn't  for  Lott  I  shouldn't  have  had  anything 
to  say  to  you  at  all — about  Zeb,  I  mean.  But  I  was  down 
in  Pisgah  yesterday,  and  Lott  was  there.  He — he  saw 
you  go  to  Nanny's  house,  Rosy;  and  he  saw  Nanny  after 
you'd  gone  away:  standing  straight,  like  he'd  had  good 
news.  And  when  he  saw  you  go  away,  and  Nanny  stand- 
ing straight.  .  .  .  What  I  mean,  Rosy,  is  that  Lott 
thinks  you  know  something  about  Zeb,  on  account  his 
father  seemed  changed  after  you  went  to  see  him." 

A  little  furrow  deepened  in  Rosy's  forehead;  but  she 
did  not  speak  immediately. 

The  old  man  continued:  "He  was  talking — old  Lott, 
you  know — to  me  and  Rufus  Minturn.  And  while  he 
didn't  say  anything  you  could  put  your  finger  on,  what 
they  call  it,  you  would  think  from  what  he  said  that 
you — that  you  had  been  helping  to  cheat  the  law,  Rosy. 
That  was  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you." 

She  took  in  much  more  than  just  what  he  said.  She 
was  being  talked  about;  it  might  be  that  she  was  actually 
menaced.  But  she  lifted  her  head  gradually  until  she 
was  holding  it  high.  Her  gaze  was  of  the  steady,  sus- 
pended kind  which  all  the  bench  folk  knew.  She  said, 
after  a  pause :  "Well,  Mr.  Feld  ?  "  Almost  subconsciously 
she  was  thinking:  "And  those  Minturn  girls  didn't  want 
to  speak  to  me — and  I  couldn't  guess  why." 

"I  told  him,"  said  Jacob,  "that  whatever  Rosy  Wood- 
ridge  did  was  all  right,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned,  and 
that  I  didn't  want  to  stand  talking  to  a  man  who  would 
say  bad  things  about  a  good  girl." 

"That  was  fine,"  said  Rosy.  "And  what  did  Mr. 
Minturn  say?" 

"Well,  Minturn  .  .  .  you  couldn't  expect  him  to  pay 
much  attention,  one  way  or  another.  He's  full  of  his 
son  on  account  he  is  in  France.  But  I  did  notice  . 


ROSY  149 

later  the  two  of  them  went  home  together  in  Minturn's 
buggy.  But  that  might  not  mean  anything  special — 
they  both  living  in  the  same  neighborhood." 

Rosy  went  over  to  the  spring  and  changed  her  buckets. 
She  returned  thoughtfully  and  resumed  her  seat,  and 
for  a  time  she  seemed  to  be  revolving  a  question  in  her 
mind.  She  began  at  length — "Mr.  Feld,  if  I  believed 
in  Zeb's  innocence — and  his  wrongs — and  if  I  had  a  chance 
to  shield  him  from  harm,  to  keep  his  secret,  what  do  you 
think  I'd  be  likely  to  do,  or  that  I  ought  to  do?" 

The  answer  to  this  was  not  quite  so  direct  and  simple 
as  she  might  have  wished  it  to  be.  "There  are  two  ways 
to  look  at  that,"  replied  the  old  man.  "There's  Zeb's 
interests  to  be  thought  of,  and  there's — yours.  Looking 
at  it  from  where  Zeb  stands  there  could  be  only  one  an- 
swer. But  Rosy  .  .  .  the  world  isn't  kind  to  a  young 
woman  who  doesn't  act  always  just  the  way  it's  set  down 
in  the  book.  If  it  was  ever  known  that  you'd  helped 
Zeb  to  keep  them  in  authority  from  finding  out  where 
he  is — well,  a  lot  of  people  would  talk." 

Again  Rosy  got  up  and  went  to  where  her  buckets 
were.  She  lifted  the  second  bucket  from  under  the  flow 
of  water.  Without  turning  about  she  made  answer  to 
her  old  friend.  She  did  not  know  that  he  was  leaning 
forward  anxiously,  praying,  after  a  fashion,  that  she 
might  not  be  offended  with  him.  "I'll  tell  you,  Mr. 
Feld,"  said  Rosy,  "for  this  once  I'm  willing  to  look  at 
it  from  Zeb's  standpoint,  and  not  from  my  own.  Though 
that's  not  saying,  mind  you,  that  I  could  take  any  one 
to  hjm,  even  if  I  wanted  to." 

Her  smile  was  so  vague  as  to  be  tantalizing  as  she 
turned  to  go  up  the  path.  She  called  back  pleasantly: 
"Good-by,  Mr.  Feld — and  thank  you.  But  just  for  the 
time  being  I  don't  mind  their  believing  that  it's  Zeb  and 
I  against  Lott  and  the  rest  of  them." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ROSY  did  not  know  that  on  the  night  Zeb  Nanny  had 
ridden  up  the  mountain  in  the  dark  Jacob  Feld  had  heard 
the  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  on  the  rocky  road,  and  realiz- 
ing that  it  was  unsafe  for  any  man  to  be  riding  abroad 
that  night,  had  followed  after  the  sound,  meaning  to 
hail  the  traveller — until,  against  the  background  of  Rosy's 
light,  he  had  seen  Zeb  Nanny — or  so  he  had  believed  the 
rider  to  be — dismount  and  move  athwart  the  shaft  of 
light  toward  Rosy's  door.  Then,  knowing  that  the  rider 
had  found  a  harbor,  if  not  the  destination  he  sought,  he 
had  gone  back  into  his  own  house — to  learn  the  next 
day  that  Zeb  Nanny's  horse  had  been  found  on  the  moun- 
tain, and  that  Nanny  was  missing. 

These  were  things  Rosy  could  not  know.  But  it  was 
none  the  less  plain  to  her  that  Feld  was  troubled  in  what 
seemed  a  singular  way  for  him,  and  that  he  harbored 
thoughts  which  he  was  unwilling  to  put  into  plain  words. 

She  thought  of  others  besides  Feld,  too,  in  connection 
with  those  spectres  of  disaster  which  were  arising  in  her 
path;  and  there  were  moments  when  she  became  fearful 
and  depressed,  and  yet  other  moments  when  she  was 
elated  in  a  wholly  unwonted  way. 

During  those  later  moments  she  would  say  to  herself: 
"I  am  taking  a  real  part  in  life.  I  am  no  longer  sitting 
on  a  wall,  waiting  for  some  one  to  pass.  I  have  taken 
my  place  in  the  road,  so  that  others  must  look  out  for 
me." 

When  she  thought  of  the  Powells  this  elation  deserted 
her  completely  and  she  would  stop  wherever  she  was— 

150 


ROSY  151 

moving  across  the  room,  or  on  the  road  to  the  spring — 
and  seem  to  droop  and  shrink.  What  would  the  Powells 
think  if  they  should  find  out  that  she  was  affording  refuge 
.  .  .  well,  if  they  should  find  out  what  she  had  been  doing  ? 
Would  the  judge's  rather  fierce  eyes  continue  to  beam, 
as  they  always  did  when  he  looked  at  her,  or  would  they 
become  cold,  and  turn  away  from  her  darkly?  And 
wouldn't  Mrs.  Powell  seem  somehow  not  to  remember 
her  any  more,  not  to  know  her  ?  She  could  not  imagine 
Mrs.  Powell  upbraiding  her;  she  could  picture  her  only 
as  looking  very  serene  and  passing  by. 

She  also  thought  of  the  Minturn  girls,  and  how  they 
had  snubbed  her  up  on  the  summit;  and  the  thought  of 
the  Minturn  girls  was  almost  as  disturbing  as  the  thought 
of  the  Powells — though  in  a  different  way.  She  derived 
a  certain  satisfaction  in  considering  herself  greatly  su- 
perior to  the  silly  Minturn  girls,  who  liked  to  treat  people 
meanly,  but  who  hadn't  courage  enough  to  speak  out. 
She  should  not  have  liked  to  give  the  Minturn  girls  the 
chance  to  say  of  her:  "Oh,  Rosy  Woodridge — you  know 
what  people  say  about  her  /" 

She  tried  to  conclude  that  her  secret  need  never  be 
revealed  and  that  she  need  never  pay  any  penalty  for 
what  she  had  done.  Why  should  any  one  ever  know 
any  more  than  she  wished  to  tell?  She  had  managed 
very  well  so  far — even  during  the  time  when  there  were 
hundreds  of  persons  on  the  mountain  who  were  always 
on  the  lookout  for  the  least  thing  that  might  interest 
them.  The  summer  would  pass  speedily  enough,  and 
then  there  would  be  practically  no  one  left,  either  on 
the  bench  or  the  summit,  to  spy  upon  her  or  to  learn 
by  chance  what  was  taking  place  in  her  house.  She  re- 
flected: "When  the  frost  comes  they  will  all  disappear 
like  the  leaves,  and  then  we  can  roam  about  the  moun- 
tain almost  without  any  fear  at  all — like  Adam  and  Eve 


152  ROSY 

in  their  garden.  I  don't  see  what  there  is  for  me  to  worry 
about." 

And  yet  she  could  not  deny  that  a  hint  of  warning 
from  Jacob  Feld  was  more  to  be  considered  than  really 
definite  threats,  coming  from  other  sources.  Feld  was 
a  man  of  peculiar  good  sense  in  many  ways.  He  was 
not  one  to  imagine  things.  His  life  was  organized  ac- 
cording to  simple  rules:  he  saw  and  thought  simply, 
and  his  conclusions  were  simple — yet  they  rarely  proved 
incorrect  or  inadequate.  "He  wouldn't  have  spoken  as 
he  did,"  she  mused,  "unless  he  had  reason  to  fear  that 
I  might  be  in  danger." 

.  .  .  She  saw  him  nearly  every  day:  sometimes 
many  times  a  day.  But  he  did  not  touch  upon  the  sub- 
ject which  was  uppermost  in  her  mind  until  nearly  a 
week  later.  Then  on  one  occasion  early  in  the  morning 
he  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  her  at  the  spring.  He  was 
looking  up  the  path  as  she  approached,  and  he  seemed 
to  be  seeing  her  anew  as  she  drew  closer  to  him.  She 
had  never  seen  him  when  he  seemed  so  near  to  being 
excited  as  now. 

"I  was  down  in  Pisgah  yesterday,"  he  began;  and 
then  they  stood  regarding  each  other  a  bit  tensely.  Feld 
was  thinking  "I  must  be  careful  how  I  say  it,"  and  Rosy 
was  saying  to  herself:  "I  wonder  what  has  gone  wrong 
now?" 

She  was  sadly  alarmed  by  his  next  revelation,  which 
came  in  the  form  of  a  question:  "Did  you  know  what 
happened  to  Zeb  Nanny's  father?" 

The  color  faded  from  her  cheeks.  "Oh,  Mr.  Feld!" 
she  cried  forlornly,  "tell  me!  .  .  ." 

The  old  man's  eyes  searched  hers  almost  relentlessly 
for  a  swift  instant;  they  seemed  to  gleam  with  a  fuller 
comprehension.  But  if  he  had  made  a  discovery,  or 
believed  that  he  had  done  so,  he  put  his  thoughts  aside 


ROSY  153 

for  future  consideration.  Just  now  he  hastily  assumed 
an  unseeing  air  and  said:  "Nothing  so  very  serious, 
Rosy.  Nothing  at  all,  you  might  say.  But  I  thought 
you'd  want  to  know.  His  house  was  searched  yester- 
day. They  went  through  it  from  cellar  to  attic. 
Through  the  barns  and  outhouses  too.  They  thought 
Zeb  might  be  hiding  somewhere  about." 

She  had  been  breathing  deeply.  "Who  did  it?"  she 
asked. 

"Well,  that's  what  makes  it  seem  ugly."  If  it  had 
been  the  sheriff,  or  officers  of  any  kind,  you  might  say 
it  was  just  a  form,  what  they  call  it.  But  it  wasn't. 
It  was  Tom  Lott  and  some  of  his  friends.  They  went 
to  the  house  to  pay  a  friendly  visit,  they  said.  They 
talked  about  this  and  that,  and  then  they  said  they  had 
heard  rumors  that  Zeb  was  hiding  somewhere  about. 
As  neighbors  and  friends,  they  said,  they'd  like  to  be 
able  to  say  to  every  one  that  Zeb  wasn't  getting  any 
protection  from  his  father,  no  matter  who  else  might 
be  shielding  him." 

Rosy's  eyes  blazed.  "Lott  couldn't  have  called  him- 
self a  friend  and  neighbor!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  he  did,"  said  Feld.  "You  see,  Rosy,  fellows 
like  that  .  .  .  they  don't  do  business  the  way  you  or 
I  would.  They  pretend  all  the  time.  They  always  got 
certain  rules  to  go  by.  Lott  takes  the  ground  that  he 
never  injured  Nanny — that  the  surveyors  only  did  just 
their  duty  in  taking  Nanny's  land  away  from  him. 
That's  their  way  of  doing  things — trying  to  make  you 
think  you  just  don't  understand.  They'd  have  you 
think  they  live  on  a  higher  plane  than  yours,  where 
thoughts  are  accurate  and  just.  Yes,  Lott  called  him- 
self a  neighbor  and  friend  to  Nanny." 

Rosy  could  scarcely  speak.  "And  didn't  Mr.  Nanny 
take  a  shotgun  to  them?"  she  demanded. 


154  ROSY 

"N — no;  no,  he  didn't.  Maybe  he  thought  the 
easiest  way  was  the  best.  He  told  them  they  could 
search  his  house,  if  that  was  what  they  wanted.  And 
he  didn't  stir  until  they  had  finished  their  job  and 
gone." 

Rosy  was  reflecting  with  curious  intensity;  she  had 
nothing  more  to  say,  seemingly. 

The  old  man  glanced  at  her  furtively.  "But  you 
haven't  asked  me,  Rosy,  if  they  found  Zeb,"  he  re- 
marked. 

She  only  lifted  her  face  a  little,  as  if  she  seemed  to 
be  gazing  intently  at  something  far  off.  And  presently 
she  asked:  "Well,  did  they?" 

He  frowned  in  almost  childish  bewilderment.  "No, 
they  didn't,"  he  said. 

She  would  not  stoop  to  the  duplicity  of  saying:  "I'm 
glad  of  it."  She  continued  to  gaze  straight  before  her, 
waiting  for  Feld  to  go  on.  But  when  he  maintained  a 
kind  of  musing  silence,  without  removing  his  eyes  from 
the  line  of  her  profile,  she  said  with  feeling:  "He  ought 
to  have  taken  his  shotgun  to  them — coming  into  his 
house  without  a  warrant  or  anything.  That's  what 
I'd  have  done." 

"Yes,"  assented  Feld;  ".  .  .  yes.  Well,  I  thought 
I'd  tell  you." 

He  stood  aside  when  she  moved  toward  the  spring 
with  her  buckets.  He  stood  regarding  her,  much  as  a 
simple-minded  father  might  regard  the  swiftly  develop- 
ing daughter  who  becomes  headstrong  in  a  love-affair 
which  he  cannot  approve.  It  seemed,  just  as  she  was 
going  away,  that  he  wished  to  speak  to  her  more  clearly, 
more  pointedly.  But  perhaps  he  had  said  all  that  was 
necessary. 

She  went  back  along  the  bench  road  pondering  darkly. 
She  knew  very  well  what  it  was  that  Jacob  Feld  wished 


ROSY  155 

to  suggest  to  her:  it  was  that  Lott  might  appear  on 
the  bench  some  day  and  go  nosing  about  in  that  brazen, 
affable  way  of  his,  and  that  she  ought  to  be  on  the  look- 
out for  him.  Well,  she  would  be.  Lott  shouldn't  enter 
her  house,  certainly.  She  would  meet  him  in  the  road 
and  pelt  him  with  stones.  She  would  tell  him  what 
she  thought  of  him.  And  if  he  insisted  upon  claiming 
to  be  friendly  and  forgiving,  and  sought  to  follow  her 
into  the  house,  with  his  cunning  eyes  turning  this  way 
and  that,  she  would  take  down  her  father's  shotgun. 
She  knew  what  her  rights  were. 

...  But  if  he  brought  an  officer  with  a  search-war- 
rant? 

She  swung  her  buckets  up  to  the  kitchen-table  and 
reached  for  the  dipper.  She  heard  Minturn's  footsteps 
behind  her,  and  with  the  quick  perceptions  which  had 
been  developing  of  late  she  recognized  certain  signs 
of  impatience  in  the  sound.  She  thought  rather  moodily : 
"Now  he's  going  to  say  something  unpleasant."  She 
anticipated  him  by  turning  around  with  the  filled  dipper 
in  her  hand.  "Will  you  have  a  drink?"  she  asked. 

He  regarded  her  petulantly:  he  did  not  offer  to  take 
the  dipper  from  her.  He  only  said — "You  always  say 
you'll  be  right  back,  and  then  you  stay  away  as  if  you'd 
got  lost  or  had  an  accident." 

She  tried  to  smile  as  she  replied:  "But  you  know  I 
can't  stay  in  the  house  all  the  time!" 

"No,  of  course.  But  I've  got  to  stay  in  the  house 
all  the  time." 

She  regarded  him  musingly.  She  was  thinking: 
"That's  a  different  matter."  But  she  said  nothing. 
She  continued  to  hold  the  dipper  toward  him. 

He  took  it  at  last  and  thanked  her.  His  tone  denoted 
contrition,  and  she  realized  that  he  wished  not  to  seem 
irritable  and  unreasonable.  She  reminded  herself  again 


156  ROSY 

that  he  had  reason  to  be  unhappy  and  that  she  must 
make  allowances  for  him. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be  gone  so  long  this  time,"  she 
said  graciously.  "Mr.  Feld  wanted  to  talk  to  me  about 
something  rather  serious,  and  I  couldn't  get  away  any 
sooner." 

He  seemed  almost  to  quiver  with  interest.  "What 
did  he  have  to  talk  about?"  he  asked.  He  spoke  with 
that  hunger  for  news  known  only  to  those  who  are  shut 
out  from  the  sources  of  news. 

She  flushed  with  embarrassment.  "It  wasn't  as 
serious  as  all  that  I "  she  declared.  She  went  for  the 
coffee-pot,  to  fill  it  with  water.  She  pretended  to  have 
put  Jacob  Feld  and  what  he  had  talked  about  out  of 
her  mind. 

But  he  continued  to  search  her  face  intently  and  with 
steadily  dawning  suspicion.  Suddenly  he  exclaimed — 
"Rosy,  he  said  something  about  me — you  know  he 
did!" 

She  was  slightly  puzzled  at  first.  She  had  to  read- 
just her  point  of  view  before  she  could  understand  why 
he  should  think  any  one  would  speak  of  him.  At  length 
she  said,  with  unmistakable  emphasis:  "No,  he  didn't!" 
And  then  she  gave  her  attention  to  the  task  of  filling 
the  coffee-pot. 

But  he  would  not  drop  the  subject.  "Rosy,  you 
know  very  well  it's  not  safe  for  me  here,"  he  said  in  an' 
insistent  tone.  "Something  is  sure  to  get  out  sooner 
or  later.  And  I  could  get  away  if  you'd  help  me." 

"How  do  you  mean,  help  you?"  she  asked,  turning 
to  him  again. 

His  face  flushed  and  he  averted  his  eyes;  and  in  the 
interval  of  silence  which  followed  she  took  occasion 
to  turn  his  mind  into  a  different  channel,  if  it  were  pos- 
sible to  do  so. 

She  said  pleasantly:    "When  it  gets  dark  to-night 


ROSY  157 

.  .  .  I've  got  a  plan.  Do  you  remember  my  telling  you 
about  a  secret  cave?  It's  easy  to  get  into.  The  rocks 
stick  out  in  the  sides  of  the  old  well  so  that  you  can  step 
on  them  and  climb  down.  And  then  you're  in  a  place 
which  isn't  known  to  a  soul  but  me.  A  wonderful  place. 
If  everybody  from  here  to  Pisgah  looked  for  you  they'd 
never  find  you  in  a  hundred  years." 

She  was  glad  because  of  a  faintly  dawning  light  in 
his  eyes — as  if  his  curiosity  had  been  aroused.  She 
continued:  "When  it  gets  dark  I'll  show  you.  It's 
like  going  into  a  new  world  where  there's  nobody." 

He  began  to  smile  faintly,  as  if  he  were  a  child.  He 
seemed  about  to  say  something;  but  just  at  that  in- 
stant there  was  an  occurrence  which  froze  the  smile 
on  his  lips  and  drove  the  color  from  his  cheeks.  A  shrill 
whistle  had  sounded  out  in  the  road. 

She  too  was  startled.    "Wait!"  she  whispered. 

She  went  stealthily  into  the  front  room  and  stood 
cautiously  back  from  the  window,  looking  out. 

She  could  see  nothing,  and  this  circumstance  still 
further  alarmed  her.  Her  pulses  were  pounding  vio- 
lently. The  whistle  had  sounded  immediately  in  front 
of  the  house;  yet  there  was  nothing  in  sight  but  the 
undisturbed  verdure  of  the  mountainside. 

From  farther  up  the  road  she  heard  a  footfall  ap- 
proaching, and  a  moment  later  the  ancient  form  of 
Doctor  Garner  appeared.  His  coming  was  a  mere  in- 
terruption— it  had  nothing  to  do  with  that  alarming 
whistle,  she  was  certain.  She  regarded  him  impatiently, 
hoping  he  would  speedily  pass,  so  that  the  hidden  drama 
he  had  interrupted  might  perhaps  reveal  itself.  But 
even  the  harmless,  irascible  old  doctor  contributed 
his  mite  to  her  suspicions  and  fears.  Opposite  her  house 
he  turned  his  eyes  furtively  and  seemed  to  observe  her 
window  with  suspicion.  She  contemplated  him  now 
with  dislike,  rather  than  pity.  He  was  very  old,  and 


158  ROSY 

he  had  grown  old  gracelessly.  He  had  become  a  little, 
knotty  parcel  of  petty  intensities  and  precisions,  know- 
ing all  things,  heatedly  resenting  all  differences  of  opin- 
ion. He  walked  oddly,  busily,  as  if  he  were  doing  a 
sort  of  eccentric  dance — and  if  any  one  had  looked  after 
him  with  even  the  faintest  amusement,  he  would  have 
turned  and  bristled  instantly  and  barked  out  his  ani- 
mosity. He  turned  again — he  was  nearly  out  of  sight 
now — and  looked  at  Rosy's  window  in  a  covert,  sinister 
way,  and  then  he  was  gone. 

Rosy  had  almost  forgotten  the  disturbing  whistle. 
She  was  wondering  what  could  have  happened  to  make 
Nat  suddenly  fearful.  There  was  so  little  he  could  really 
hear!  And  she  concluded  that  the  mere  fact  of  being 
in  the  dark  as  he  was  explained  any  number  and  kind 
of  suspicions.  Perhaps  it  was  not  strange  that  he  be- 
lieved his  affairs  might  come  to  a  fatal  climax  at  almost 
any  time. 

There  was  silence  out  in  the  road — and  then  a  repeti- 
tion of  that  shrill  and  ominous  whistle.  But  almost 
immediately  Rosy  was  smiling,  her  fears  dispelled. 
One  of  the  bench  boys  emerged  from  a  tangle  of  grape- 
vines up  on  the  slope.  It  was  quite  obvious  that  he 
had  been  imagining  himself  a  Redskin  or  a  bandit.  He 
came  tumbling  down  into  the  road.  He  lifted  one  foot 
and  hopped  from  one  stone  to  another,  maintaining 
his  balance  only  at  the  cost  of  much  facial  contortion. 
He  was  a  Redskin  no  more,  but  only  a  lonely  little  boy, 
wondering  where  all  the  other  boys  had  gone — a  comic 
picture  in  a  kindly  world. 

Rosy  watched  him  until  he  disappeared  down  the 
road.  She  heard  him  whistle  again,  faintly,  in  the  dis- 
tance. 

"I'm  beginning  to  imagine  things,"  she  thought. 
"No  one  is  going  to  harm  me." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

As  dusk  fell  that  evening  Rosy  made  many  a  trip 
to  her  front  window  and  looked  out,  to  see  that  not  too 
much  daylight  remained  for  the  adventure  in  hand, 
to  be  sure  there  was  no  one  on  the  road.  Her  forebod- 
ings had  been  almost  wholly  succeeded  by  a  delicious 
excitement.  It  was  as  if  she  were  playing  a  game  at 
which  she  was  more  skilled  than  others  who  played  it. 
She  seemed  more  like  a  girl  and  less  like  a  woman  than 
she  had  seemed  for  days. 

At  last,  after  a  specially  intense  vigil  at  the  window 
she  turned  decisively.  She  was  exceedingly  eager. 
"We'll  try  it  now,"  she  said.  And  she  led  the  way  hur- 
riedly, noiselessly,  through  the  house  and  out  the  back 
way. 

She  crossed  a  copselike  space  where  peach-boughs 
veiled  her  from  the  road — if  there  had  been  any  one 
on  the  road  to  see  her.  "  Come  on !"  she  called  sharply. 
She  paused  before  the  wreck  of  a  well  and  looked  down. 
She  waited  only  long  enough  to  be  sure  that  Minturn 
was  coming,  and  then  she  set  foot  upon  a  projecting 
rock.  An  instant  later  she  had  disappeared. 

The  rough  sides  of  the  well  were  easy  of  descent — at 
least  for  her.  The  excavation  was  shallow,  less  than 
eight  feet  in  depth.  A  large  cavity  opened  from  one 
side,  at  the  base.  Two  natural  stone  steps  led  the  way 
into  an  invisible,  unknown  region.  And  into  this  un- 
known region  Rosy  vanished. 

She  stood  and  waited  until  he  joined  her  there;  and 
even  when  she  knew  that  he  had  falteringly  approached 

159 


160  ROSY 

and  was  standing  beside  her,  she  did  not  speak.  The 
magic  spell  of  the  place  was  upon  her.  They  were  in 
a  region  of  shadows  and  gloom,  relieved  by  an  immense 
opening  in  the  face  of  the  mountain  a  hundred  feet  dis- 
tant. Through  that  opening  a  patch  of  sky  was  visible : 
still  blue  with  the  remnant  of  day  and  faintly  aglow 
with  the  hues  of  sunset. 

He  put  forth  a  hand  and  took  hers  and  held  it,  and 
she  did  not  resist  him.  She  seemed  scarcely  aware  of 
what  he  had  done. 

He  was  oppressed  by  the  subterranean  gloom  and 
solitude,  while  she  was  moved  by  the  remembrance  of 
childish  dreams.  To  him  the  obscure,  yawning  recesses 
were  sinister;  to  her  the  very  spell  of  the  place  sprang 
from  its  vagueness. 

While  they  stood  there  in  silence  the  area  of  open 
sky,  with  its  frame  of  jagged  outlines,  grew  dim,  as  if 
a  light  curtain  had  been  let  down.  The  sun  had  set, 
the  night  was  steadily  coming  on. 

She  knew  that  he  was  drawing  her  by  the  hand,  and 
a  moment  later  the  spell  had  deserted  her.  She  was 
climbing  the  wall  of  the  old  well  again,  and  peach-boughs 
were  hanging  low  above  her.  There  was  a  different 
feeling  in  the  air.  A  pleasant  odor — many  pleasant 
odors — filled  her  nostrils;  it  was  very  warm.  A  dis- 
turbed bird  flew  overhead,  calling  out  softly. 

Like  two  conspirators  they  hurried  back  into  the 
house. 

They  did  not  speak  of  their  sensations,  received  from 
that  dark  cavern.  She  was  recalling  a  childhood  which 
seemed  unwittingly  to  have  slipped  away  from  her, 
never  to  return.  She  was  scarcely  aware  of  the  presence 
of  a  companion.  And  he  gave  himself  over  to  brooding 
melancholy. 

She  took  up  her  sewing,  after  it  came  time  to  make 


ROSY  161 

a  light,  and  he  pretended  to  read;  and  so  they  sat, 
vaguely  estranged  from  each  other,  until  bedtime.  Then 
he  ascended  his  ladder  without  a  word  of  good  night. 

Morning  brought  to  each  a  more  normal  condition. 
Each  recalled  the  silent  visit  of  the  night  before  as  if 
it  were  a  dream,  or  as  if  it  were  a  thing  to  dread.  At 
the  breakfast-table  he  put  down  his  coffee  cup  abruptly 
and  said,  with  an  attempt  at  a  smile:  "The  next  thing 
I  know  you'll  be  trying  to  keep  me  down  in  that  dismal 
hole  night  and  day." 

She  smiled  almost  imperceptibly  when  he  spoke  of 
the  cavern  in  such  terms.  "I  don't  want  anybody  to 
find  you — that's  all,"  she  said.  "I  wanted  you  to  know 
about  it,  so  you  can  hide  when  you  have  to.  For  my 
part  I  shouldn't  mind  if  I  had  to  stay  there  for  days 
at  a  time.  I  only  want  you  to  go  there  if  anybody  comes 
— to  look  for  you,  I  mean." 

Unconsciously  she  had  assumed  the  attitude  of  the 
menaced  one,  while  he  had  begun  to  make  difficulties 
where  there  need  have  been  none.  It  would  have  seemed 
that  he  no  longer  cared  very  much  about  remaining 
in  concealment,  while  she  planned  more  earnestly  than 
ever  to  protect  him — and  indirectly,  perhaps,  herself. 

She  continued,  more  lightly:  "And  I  don't  see  much 
difference  between  climbing  down  an  old  well,  into  a 
cavern,  and  scrambling  up  a  ladder  into  an  attic,  when- 
ever I  have  a  caller."  She  smiled  reminiscently.  "If 
you  could  see  yourself  climbing  up  that  ladder  you  might 
prefer  to  hide  in  the  cavern  once  in  a  while.  Sometimes 
it's  all  I  can  do  to  keep  from  laughing  when  you  go  up 
that  ladder,  like  a  jumping-jack.  It's  really  ridiculous. 
Sometimes  I  expect  them  to  say,  when  they  come  in, 
'What  are  you  laughing  at,  Rosy?'  Though  of  course 
I  don't  laugh,  really." 


162  ROSY 

He  flushed  dully  and  averted  his  eyes.  "It  must  be 
very  amusing/'  he  said. 

"No,  it  isn't,"  she  declared.  "I  didn't  mean  that. 
All  I  meant  was  that  you  mustn't  be  so  hard  to  please. 
There  are  others  besides  yourself  who  have  got  to  be 
considered.  What  do  you  suppose  your  father  would 
think  if  you  were  found  here,  and  the  officers  were  to 
come  to  arrest  you?"  She  sought  to  choose  her  next 
words  tactfully:  "And  how  would  it  look  for  me?  You 
ought  to  remember  that." 

He  averted  his  eyes  again.  "I  think  that's  what  you 
think  of  most  of  all,"  he  said,  "how  it  would  look  for 
you.  If  you  didn't  think  so  much  of  yourself  you'd 
do  as  I  want  you  to  and  get  away  from  here.  If  we  were 
married  and  living  away  off  somewhere,  quietly,  nobody 
would  bother  us."  As  if  in  answer  to  a  question  in  his 
own  mind  he  added:  "I'd  write  to  my  father  and  he'd 
help  us.  With  money,  I  mean." 

Her  only  reply  was:  "I'm  not  thinking  only  of  my- 
self. I'm  thinking  of  us  both.  Of  everybody.  And 
that's  what  I  want  you  to  do." 

She  became  absorbed  in  her  own  fancies  for  a  time. 
She  seemed  to  have  forgotten  his  presence.  She  was 
thinking  how  her  childish  dreams  had  endowed  the  hidden 
cavern  with  a  magic  charm,  and  how  it  might  now  be 
made  the  scene  of  a  great  adventure.  But  this  would 
be  difficult,  because  she  was  dealing  with  one  who  did 
not  know  what  make-believe  was,  and  who  liked  to 
make  things  worse  than  they  were,  instead  of  better. 

But  presently  her  eyes,  gazing  at  nothing,  became 
aglow  with  happiness  and  wonder. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about  now?"  he  demanded 
petulantly. 

She  aroused  herself.  "Nothing,"  she  said.  She  had 
really  been  thinking  of  that  letter  she  had  received  from 


ROSY  163 

France.  In  her  mind  she  was  reading  it  over  again.  It 
was  the  first  letter  of  its  kind  she  had  ever  received. 
It  was  a  love-letter,  expressing  the  kind  of  love  she  had 
often  dreamed  of.  It  was  the  letter  of  one  who,  though 
perils  loomed  before  him,  could  think  of  her  with  tender- 
ness and  solicitude  and  gratitude — who  seemed  to  for- 
get himself  completely. 

She  wished  the  Feld  girls  had  not  known  about  her 
receiving  that  letter.  Hilda  had  been  whispering  it 
about — that  she  had  had  a  letter  from  Nat  Minturn; 
and  it  was  now  no  longer  a  secret.  She  was  being  asked 
occasionally  what  was  in  the  letter,  and  there  were  those 
who  had  even  asked  to  read  it.  They  seemed  to  think 
that  a  letter  from  a  soldier  ought  to  be  considered 
common  property.  But  she  would  never  show  that 
letter.  A  thousand  times,  no ! 

She  assumed  a  brisk  manner.  "We  mustn't  be 
foolish,"  she  said.  "We've  both  got  to  do  our  part  and 
make  the  best  of  things." 

She  got  up  and  began  to  clear  the  breakfast  things 
away.  She  was  unnecessarily  noisy  as  she  put  the  dishes 
in  a  pan  and  poured  the  hot  water  over  them.  It  might 
have  seemed  that  Minturn's  presence  no  longer  had 
power  either  to  rejoice  or  to  trouble  her. 

...  It  was  well  along  toward  noon  when  she  saw 
a  strange  vehicle  moving  along  the  bench  road  toward 
her.  She  hid  behind  the  curtain  and  looked  out.  A 
carriage  approached  slowly  and  in  it  she  saw  the  gay 
colors  of  a  woman's  dress.  She  continued  to  look  in- 
tently, and  presently  her  attitude  and  bearing  under- 
went a  curious  change. 

She  called  back  into  the  room:  "I  think  somebody 
is  coming — here."  She  turned  and  glanced  at  him 
sharply,  and  then  at  the  ladder. 

"Do  you  have  to  let  them  in?"  he  asked. 


164  ROSY 

She  was  looking  out  of  the  window  again.  "They're 
stopping — they're  coming  in,"  she  said.  She  moved 
toward  the  door,  her  intention  being  unmistakable. 
She  was  prepared  to  open  the  door;  and  when  she  turned 
for  a  final  survey  of  the  room  it  was  empty. 

It  was  Fanny  and  Evelyn  Minturn;  and  now  Rosy 
opened  the  door  and  stood  on  the  threshold,  looking 
at  her  visitors  with  eyes  which  were  intently  observant, 
almost  coldly  inquiring.  She  was  thinking:  "How 
can  they  have  the  face  to  come  to  see  me,  after  the  way 
they've  snubbed  me?"  But  almost  instantly  resent- 
ment changed  to  a  mischievous  curiosity.  They  were 
so  obviously  ill  at  ease,  now  that  they  were  placed  in 
a  disadvantageous  position;  they  were  so  obviously 
little,  forceless  creatures.  They  were  still  looking  about 
them,  as  if  they  were  not  sure  they  were  on  the  right 
road. 

When  they  saw  Rosy  in  the  doorway  their  color  began 
to  come  and  go,  and  they  tried  almost  piteously  to  hold 
their  eyes  upon  hers.  They  looked  at  each  other  as  if 
each  were  saying :  "You  must  speak  to  her  first ! "  They 
stood  outside  the  door  as  if  each  feared  to  enter  until 
the  other  had  done  so;  yet  Rosy  observed  that  even 
in  their  embarrassment  they  found  time  to  shoot  little 
furtive  glances  about  them — as  if  they  had  come  to  a 
place  of  mystery,  and  as  if  each  wished  to  have  as  much 
ground  as  the  other  to  speak  scornfully  of  Rosy  and 
her  home,  after  they  went  away. 

"Well,  Fanny,"  said  Rosy  at  length,  in  a  dry  tone, 
"suppose  you  come  in  first."  This  was  meant  as  an 
interpretation  of  their  agitated  glances  at  each  other. 

"How  do  you  do,  Rosy?"  began  Fanny.  "Yes,  we're 
both  coming  in,  right  away.  We  were  just  stopping 
to  notice  how  perfectly  lovely  everything  is  up  here." 

Rosy  reflected:  "She  doesn't  want  to  admit  that 
she's  uneasy."  She  said  aloud:  "Yes,  it  is  lovely — 


ROSY  165 

though  I  don't  know  as  it  is  as  grand  here  as  it  is  on 
the  summit."  She  withdrew  into  the  room,  followed 
by  the  two  visitors,  Fanny  in  the  lead. 

Inside  the  room  the  sisters  turned  toward  each  other 
as  if  each  wished  to  remind  the  other  of  something  they 
had  agreed  upon;  and  then  both  turned  to  Rosy.  "It 
was  you,  up  on  the  summit  the  other  evening,"  said 
both  almost  simultaneously. 

"Yes,"  said  Rosy,  "I  was  there.  I  tried  to  catch 
your  eye,  but  you  were  both  enjoying  the  sunset.  Wasn't 
it  wonderful?"  She  thought:  "I  ought  not  to  let  them 
get  away  with  it  so  easy,  but  it  doesn't  make  any  dif- 
ference." 

"We  spoke  of  it  afterward,"  said  Fanny.  "We  both 
thought  it  must  have  been  you.  But  you  grow  so, 
Rosy!" 

"And  get  prettier  all  the  time,"  added  Evelyn. 
"That's  what  we  both  said  after  we  went  home." 

Rosy  smiled  inscrutably  and  looked  into  their  eyes 
without  flinching.  She  said  to  herself:  "They  have 
heard  about  my  getting  a  letter.  That  is  why  they 
have  come."  She  was  happy  to  think  that  she  could 
be  quite  at  ease  with  them,  without  saying  a  word,  while 
they  tried  so  hopelessly  to  tide  over  a  bad  moment  by 
talking  foolishly. 

They  could  not  endure  Rosy's  silence  and  the  faintly 
taunting  light  in  her  eyes.  It  was  Evelyn  who  sought 
relief  by  saying,  with  entirely  spurious  warmth  and 
gayety:  "We  think  it's  wonderful  how  well  you  do, 
Rosy — living  all  by  yourself  and  doing  everything.  We 
both  think  so."  She  glanced  at  Fanny  with  an  expres- 
sion which  said  plainly:  "Now  you  think  of  something 
to  say  next."  But  it  seemed  that  Fanny  was  unable 
to  rise  to  the  occasion,  and  a  rather  pathetic  silence 
fell  upon  both  the  sisters. 

Rosy  would  have  pitied  them  but  for  the  fact  that 


166  ROSY 

she  could  not  help  seeing  how  they  kept  trying  all  the 
time  to  spy  out  things  in  a  furtive,  timid  way.  Their 
glances  kept  travelling  constantly:  out  into  the  lean-to, 
up  the  ladder,  and  even  under  the  bed.  She  could  not 
help  thinking  to  herself:  "They  are  like  cats,  exactly. 
I  think  in  secret  they  must  have  a  passion  for  catching 
mice." 

It  seemed  to  her  that  they  would  remain  indefinitely, 
until  they  could  summon  up  courage  enough  to  ask 
about  the  letter  that  had  come  from  France,  or  until 
they  could  stumble  upon  the  subject  by  chance.  She 
was  eager  to  have  them  go  away,  and  it  seemed  best 
to  meet  them  more  than  half-way  on  the  subject  of  the 
letter. 

She  asked,  as  if  she  had  just  chanced  to  remember 
it:  "Did  you  know  that  I'd  got  a  letter?" 

They  flushed  a  little  and  glanced  at  each  other,  and 
it  was  plain  that  their  prearranged  system  of  inquiry 
had  been  made  to  collapse  because  of  this  pointed  ques- 
tion. They  blundered.  Fanny  cried — "Oh,  did  you?" 
and  at  the  very  same  time  Evelyn  began:  "Yes,  we'd 
heard—  She  broke  off  in  confusion,  and  then  they 
looked  at  each  other  accusingly,  as  two  cooks  might 
do  if  each  were  to  discover  that  the  other  had  put  salt 
into  the  broth. 

Rosy  lifted  her  glance  and  kept  it  suspended  over 
their  heads,  while  she  smiled  with  quiet  malice.  "I 
did,"  she  said.  "Have  you  had  one?" 

They  recovered  themselves  quickly.  "You  mean 
from  Nat,"  said  Fanny.  "No,  we  haven't.  You  know 
what  brothers  are  like.  They  never  write  to  their  sisters. 
It's  ever  so  much  more  interesting,  it  seems,  to  write 
to — to  somebody  else's  sister!"  They  both  laughed 
at  this:  happily,  as  if  they  were  getting  along  even  better 
than  they  had  hoped  to  do. 


ROSY  167 

"I  suppose  that's  true,"  said  Rosy  dryly;  and  she 
sat  with  her  hands  folded  idly,  and  with  that  vague 
twinkle  in  her  lifted  eyes. 

They  did  not  ask  to  see  the  letter.  It  was  to  be  sup- 
posed that  if  Nat  had  written  to  Rosy,  before  he  had 
written  to  any  one  else,  it  would  have  been  a  love-letter. 
But  Evelyn,  after  a  cautiously  inquiring  glance  at  Fanny, 
ventured  to  say — "We  didn't  know  that  you  knew  Nat 
as  well  as — as  that,  Rosy.  It  was  the  most  delightful 
surprise  to  us." 

"Yes,  indeed!"  echoed  Fanny. 

"Yes,  I  know  your  brother  quite  well,"  said  Rosy; 
and  a  kind  of  rippling  light  seemed  to  play  upon  her 
features.  "You  know  he  used  often  to  come  up  here 
to  the  bench  to  play.  We  seem  to  have  grown  up  to- 
gether. There  were  a  good  many  of  us:  we  used  to 
have  such  good  times.  I  can't  think  why  you  never 
came."  She  glanced  from  one  to  the  other  with  an  air 
of  candor;  but  she  was  thinking — "They'd  have  had 
lots  more  fun  if  they  hadn't  thought  they  were  too  good 
for  other  people." 

"I'm  not  sure  we  knew,"  said  Fanny.  "Who  all 
was  it — besides  you  and  Nat?" 

Rosy  tried  to  remember.  "There  was  Charley  Feld 
and  the  Feld  girls,"  she  said.  She  was  about  to  add 
that  there  had  been  William  Springer;  but  she  decided 
not  to  mention  the  Springer  boy.  No  one  thought  highly 
of  the  Springers  now;  and  even  when  they  had  been 
children  they  had  tried  to  run  away  from  William 
Springer  when  they  went  roaming  about  the  mountain. 
She  added:  "And  there  was  Zeb  Nanny.  ..."  She 
paused  as  if  the  names  of  the  others  did  not  come 
readily,  or  as  if  they  did  not  matter. 

"Poor  Zeb!"  said  Evelyn.  She  tried  to  speak  pen- 
sively; but  it  was  plain  that  both  the  sisters  had  be- 


168  ROSY 

come  much  more  alert  with  the  mention  of  Zeb  Nanny's 
name.  Indeed,  their  manner  had  altered  in  such  a  way 
that  Rosy  looked  at  them  with  a  new  dawning  sus- 
picion. 

Fanny  remarked,  with  an  attempt  at  a  casual  tone, 
"I  suppose  he  was  a  right  good  boy,  when  he  was  little." 

"I  always  liked  him,"  said  Rosy  dryly.  She  added: 
"I  don't  know  anything  against  him  yet.  He  never 
had  any  trouble  with  anybody.  That  is,  nobody  but 
old  man  Lott." 

She  knew  that  the  sisters  were  now  stealing  glances 
at  each  other,  but  she  pretended  not  to  notice. 

"It's  very  exciting,"  said  Evelyn,  as  if  she  had  re- 
ceived her  cue  from  Fanny.  "Some  people  say  he's 
not  far  away,  for  all  they  can't  find  him.  You  hear 
the  strangest  things !" 

"Where  do  they  think  he  is?"  asked  Rosy.  She 
seemed  prepared  to  receive  their  answer  with  an  en- 
tirely open  mind. 

They  were  both  painfully  confused.  "Of  course, 
nobody  pretends  to  know,"  said  Fanny.  "You  know 
how  people  talk!" 

"I  don't  suppose  they  know  anything  about  it,"  said 
Rosy.  "Zeb's  got  more  friends  than  old  man  Lott, 
ten  to  one — and  more  sense,  too.  Whatever  he  tries 
to  do  he'll  do." 

Evelyn  ventured  a  breathless — "Why,  Rosy!"  But 
Rosy  only  went  on,  speaking  more  calmly:  "I'd  wish 
him  good  luck  as  long  as  nobody  but  old  Lott  accused 
him." 

The  sisters  looked  at  each  other  with  the  germ  of  a 
small,  firm  resolution  in  their  eyes.  They  did  not  look 
at  Rosy  for  a  moment;  but  Evelyn  found  courage  to 
say:  "I  don't  think  you  ought  to  speak  of  him  that  way, 
Rosy — and  him  a  convict  and  all.  If  you're  such  a  good 


ROSY  169 

friend  to  Nat,  I  wonder  what  he'd  think  if  he  knew  you 
spoke  so  well  of  Zeb  ?  " 

"I  hadn't  thought,"  replied  Rosy,  "but  I'd  say  the 
same  thing  if  Nat  were  sitting  in  that  chair  you're  in 
instead  of  you.  I'm  only  telling  the  truth." 

They  went  away  before  long;  and  from  the  road, 
in  the  distance,  they  looked  back  curiously  and  warily 
at  Rosy's  house. 

Peering  through  an  opening  between  the  curtains 
Rosy  watched  them  do  so;  and  a  faint  smile  remained 
on  her  lips. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

TRAVELLERS  and  strangers  who  passed  the  Minturn 
home  were  pretty  likely  to  pause  for  a  second  glance 
at  the  big  frame  house,  with  its  sentinel  pines  and  oaks 
about  it,  and  realize  that  it  expressed  the  aspirations 
and  ambitions  of  a  man  who  held  himself  superior  to 
his  neighbors. 

To  the  Pisgah  mind,  attuned  to  local  standards  of 
elegance  and  art,  it  seemed  a  very  impressive  structure 
indeed,  with  its  sharply  pitched  gables  and  shiny  light- 
ning-rods and  extensive  scrollwork,  extending  along 
the  eaves  and  embellishing  the  porches.  To  pilots  steer- 
ing their  boats  from  a  great  distance  up  the  river  one 
smartly  painted  white  gable-end  was  as  a  beacon  by 
day;  and  at  night  the  same  pilots  could  sight  the  lighted 
windows  from  points  which  looked,  otherwise,  upon  a 
region  of  vast,  dark  expanses. 

Rufus  Minturn  and  his  family  were  proud  of  their 
home,  placidly  unaware  of  any  higher  standards  of  taste 
according  to  which  their  house  would  have  seemed  only 
cheaply  smug,  now  that  it  was  comparatively  new,  and 
certain  to  deteriorate  into  shabbiness  rather  than  pic- 
turesqueness  when  it  became  old. 

It  stood  near  one  of  the  boundary-lines  of  the  Min- 
turn plantation:  a  tract  of  some  twelve  hundred  acres 
in  extent,  and  of  almost  unsurpassable  richness.  The 
land  had  come  to  Rufus  Minturn  from  his  father — a 
Northerner  of  the  days  of  carpet-bag  government,  who 
had  made  his  appearance  in  Arkansas  at  a  time  when 
land  values  were  at  a  low  ebb  by  reason  of  the  section's 

170 


ROSY  171 

generally  bankrupt  condition,  and  the  passing  of  an 
era  of  slave-labor  which  had  left  both  the  will  and  the 
ability  to  cultivate  the  land  sadly  diminished  and  in 
many  instances  practically  destroyed.  It  was  a  choice 
tract  in  every  way:  bottom  land,  as  it  was  called,  yet 
protected  from  overflow  during  high  stages  in  the  river 
by  a  chain  of  promontories,  scarcely  more  than  immense 
hummocks,  which  extended  along  the  river's  edge. 

Half  a  mile  down  the  road  which  bordered  the  plan- 
tation the  overseer,  Pemberton,  had  his  dwelling-place; 
and  a  little  farther  on  a  group  of  primitive  structures 
housed  the  men  and  women — all  negroes — who  tilled 
the  Minturn  acres.  Near  their  huts  the  community 
store  stood;  and  not  far  from  the  store  the  blacksmith- 
shop  was  situated. 

For  the  rest  there  was  an  extensive  vista  of  flat  acres 
where  the  crop — almost  exclusively  of  cotton — was 
cultivated.  This  was  bisected  again  and  again  by  roads 
or  trails  which  were  needed  to  facilitate  the  movements 
of  teams  or  the  conveying  of  the  staple  from  point  to 
point:  and  in  the  midst  of  the  plantation  a  cotton-gin 
had  its  place. 

In  years  past  the  estate  had  possessed  one  physical 
defect — or  it  had  seemed  to  do  so.  Near  one  of  its  mar- 
gins the  bottom  loam  merged  into  sand  and  stony  soil; 
and  out  of  this  arose,  abruptly  and  quite  isolated,  an 
immense  hill.  But  in  the  course  of  time  Rufus  Minturn 
had  discovered  that  this  hill  was  a  solid  mass  of  granite, 
under  a  thin  substratum  of  soil;  and  on  an  occasion 
when  he  needed  stone  for  building  purposes  he  hit  upon 
the  idea  of  obtaining  the  needed  material  from  the  granite 
mass  which  arose  like  a  wall  at  the  confines  of  his  own 
estate. 

The  experiment  had  proved  so  satisfactory  in  every 
way  that  he  had  immediately  added  the  profession  of 


172  ROSY 

quarryman  to  that  of  planter.  By  a  plan  which  in- 
volved no  risk  of  loss  he  engaged  a  quarry  foreman — 
the  plan  was  based  upon  a  percentage  division  of  profits 
— and  became  known  throughout  a  considerable  terri- 
tory as  a  quarryman.  On  occasion  he  sold  rock  to  the 
government,  which  was  putting  in  a  series  of  dikes  above 
Pisgah  to  keep  the  erratic  river  current  in  its  channel; 
and  others  who  needed  certain  kinds  of  building  material 
found  it  just  a  little  cheaper  to  deal  with  the  Minturn 
quarries  than  to  buy  the  necessary  implements  and  do 
quarrying  on  their  own  account  farther  away  among 
the  mountains. 

According  to  the  local  standards  Minturn  was  a 
wealthy  man;  and  year  after  year  his  wealth  increased. 
He  hoarded  what  he  had;  he  knew  how  to  invest  his 
wealth  conservatively,  and  his  personal  needs  were 
few. 

Yet  the  general  effect  of  much  seeming  good  fortune 
had  been  to  establish  a  barrier  between  the  family  and 
all  who  knew  them.  The  Minturns  were  said  to  be  per- 
sons without  generous  impulses,  without  any  interest 
in  the  progress  of  the  community,  without  the  slightest 
kindly  thought  for  those  who  were  needy  or  unfortunate 
— without  regard  for  those  who  would  have  asked  noth- 
ing from  them  but  courteous  friendliness. 

Rufus  Minturn  derived  his  chief  pleasure — if  it  could 
have  been  called  pleasure — from  the  knowledge  that 
he  was  dependent  upon  no  one,  while  many  were  de- 
pendent upon  him.  His  attitude  toward  his  tenants 
was  one  of  unruffled  tyranny.  He  spent  much  of  his 
time  in  a  light  runabout  which  could  be  seen  here  and 
there  about  his  estate:  in  the  cotton-fields  in  summer, 
or  at  the  store  which  his  tenants  patronized  and  main- 
tained by  a  credit  system  which  was  wholly  to  their 
disadvantage;  about  the  cotton-gin  hi  the  fall  or  during 


ttOSY  173 

the  winter;  before  the  doors  of  his  tenants  when  he 
could  make  occasion  to  speak  to  them  critically  or  warn- 
ingly;  in  the  vicinity  of  his  quarries;  or  on  the  road 
to  Pisgah,  or  on  the  streets  of  Pisgah,  where  he  was 
viewed  with  a  certain  respect  which  seemed  to  satisfy 
every  craving  of  his  nature. 

He  was  served  like  a  shadow  by  his  overseer,  Pember- 
ton.  The  relationship  between  the  two  was  almost 
like  that  of  guilty  conspirators.  They  had  little  to  say 
to  each  other.  They  spoke  in  low  tones,  apart.  They 
understood  each  other  perfectly. 

Minturn's  only  son,  Nat,  had  learned  the  one  lesson 
which  was  required  of  him:  an  unfailing  humility  in 
the  presence  of  his  father.  He  had  gone  to  school  in 
a  rather  listless  fashion;  he  enjoyed  his  leisure  hours 
in  much  the  same  spirit.  He  had  worked  at  desultory 
tasks  about  the  plantation  when  his  father  had  found 
them  for  him  to  do.  He  craved  friendship  and  was  re- 
garded rather  more  highly  than  the  other  members  of 
the  family. 

It  was  said  of  him  that  he  lacked  incentive — as  any 
youth  in  his  place  might  have  done,  with  broad  acres 
waiting  to  become  his  own  when  his  father  died.  There 
was  a  belief  that  he  might  have  been  a  very  good  sort 
of  young  fellow  if  he  had  been  placed  as  other  boys  were. 
He  was  said  to  "take  after  his  mother,"  and  to  bear 
slight  resemblance  to  his  father  or  to  his  sisters. 

The  Minturn  girls  excited  pity  rather  than  any  other 
emotion.  They  were  rather  pretty  girls — but  in  a  spare, 
bloodless  fashion  which  presaged  an  early  departure  of 
youth  and  comeliness.  Without  being  indolent,  they 
lacked  industry  of  any  sort.  They  would  have  thought 
it  mean  to  engage  in  household  duties — though  their 
mother  was  always  overburdened.  They  thought  scorn- 
fully of  the  accomplishments  which  were  recommended 


174  ROSY 

to  other  young  ladies.  Why  should  they  spend  hours 
at  the  piano,  playing  tiresome  exercises  ?  Or  why  should 
they  seek  to  win  renown  for  scholarship — or  for  skill 
at  certain  homely  things:  making  preserves,  for  ex- 
ample, or  fancy  work,  or  the  cultivation  of  flowers? 
Such  things  were  all  right  for  other  girls — girls  who 
had  to  think  about  making  a  good  impression  on  the 
men  they  might  need  sooner  or  later  as  husbands.  As 
for  themselves,  they  need  not  think  of  placing  such  offer- 
ings at  the  feet  of  possible  suitors.  In  their  cases  the 
suitors  would  have  to  supply  all  the  recommendations. 
Their  father  was  rich,  and  some  day  his  wealth  would  be 
theirs. 

In  their  hearts  they  believed  that  the  young  men 
about  them  were  not  their  equals.  Perhaps  they  thought 
vaguely  that  the  time  would  come  when  they  would 
make  brilliant  matches  with  men  from  a  distance.  But 
they  were  in  no  hurry  for  this  time  to  come.  They  lacked 
ability  to  discriminate  among  the  young  men  of  their 
acquaintance — to  perceive  those  undeveloped  merits 
which  foreshadow  excellent  careers.  They  carried  their 
heads  high  when  they  passed  the  young  men  of  their 
own  and  adjacent  neighborhoods — and  then  turned 
about  furtively,  not  from  womanly  desire,  but  from 
curiosity  to  see  how  their  snubs  had  been  received. 

It  was  widely  predicted  that  they  would  remain  un- 
married and  wither  away  into  faded  unloveliness,  and 
ride  about  the  plantation  as  their  father  had  done,  and 
speak  tyrannically  to  the  tenants,  and  find  fault  with 
everything.  Still,  they  would  be  rich;  and  this  circum- 
stance gave  them,  in  the  eyes  of  their  neighbors,  a  cer- 
tain interest. 

Shortly  before  sunset  on  the  day  of  the  Minturn 
girls'  visit  to  Rosy  Woodridge,  Rufus  Minturn  emerged 


ROSY  175 

from  his  front  door  and  came  out  upon  the  long  veranda 
which  extended  the  full  width  of  the  house.  Various 
rustic  chairs  were  at  hand  and  he  seemed  for  a  moment 
to  be  deciding  where  he  should  sit.  But  with  the  rest- 
lessness of  an  avaricious  man  he  changed  his  mind  ab- 
ruptly and  walked  away  to  the  end  of  the  veranda,  where 
he  could  look  out  over  his  possessions. 

The  day's  work  was  done  save  in  the  far-away  region 
of  the  quarries,  where  a  few  charges  of  dynamite  re- 
mained to  be  exploded.  The  muffled  reports  filled  the 
quiet  earth  with  shuddering  vibrations  and  then  died 
away.  From  various  points  about  the  plantation  negroes 
were  wending  their  way  toward  their  huts,  from  which 
ascending  spirals  of  smoke  proclaimed  that  suppers 
were  being  prepared.  There  were  no  sounds  of  singing 
or  rejoicing:  the  Minturn  negroes  were  taught  early 
in  their  periods  of  tenure  not  to  be  demonstrative.  If 
they  were  ever  happy  they  concealed  the  fact — per- 
haps from  fear  that  their  burdens  might  be  multiplied. 

Far  and  near  the  cotton  bolls  were  beginning  to  burst, 
so  that  the  prospect  from  where  Minturn  stood  was  of 
finely  contrasting  colors :  the  snowy  white  of  the  cotton, 
the  vivid  green  of  the  leaves,  the  burnished  hues  of  the 
stalks,  and  the  sombre  earth.  Through  a  long  series 
of  depressions  a  glimpse  of  the  river  could  be  caught — 
and  this  was  like  a  flame  from  the  setting  sun. 

Whatever  half-remembered  thought  he  had  had  in 
mind  was  put  aside  finally  and  he  recrossed  the  veranda 
and  adjusted  one  of  the  porch  chairs  to  his  liking  and 
sat  down.  It  was  his  favorite  habit  to  sit  here  late  in 
the  afternoon,  after  he  had  assiduously  covered  a  score 
or  more  of  miles  during  the  day.  He  liked  to  be  seen 
sitting  in  the  shade  by  those  who  toiled  along  the  road 
and  felt  the  oppressive  heat  of  the  sun,  and  who  per- 
haps carried  invisible  burdens  which  darkened  the  sky 


176  ROSY 

for  them.  He  felt  that  he  presented  an  enviable  and 
model  picture  as  he  sat  at  ease,  his  work  intelligently 
done;  and  it  gratified  him  when  any  one  turned  in  from 
the  road  to  speak  to  him — though  he  usually  answered 
back  briefly  and  reservedly.  He  liked  to  think  that  his 
house  wore  a  fine  old-fashioned  air  of  hospitality — though 
he  rarely  invited  any  one  into  it,  and  it  was  known  that 
on  more  than  one  occasion  when  visitors  had  come  on 
business  he  had  kept  his  own  supper  or  dinner  waiting 
rather  than  ask  a  neighbor  to  sit  at  his  table. 

Presently,  as  if  something  were  wanting  to  a  complete 
sense  of  proprietorship,  he  called  out  (perhaps  he  had 
heard  Mrs.  Minturn  stirring  in  the  room  close  by): 
*' Whereabouts  are  the  girls,  ma?" 

Mrs.  Minturn  appeared  in  the  doorway.  "What 
did  you  say?"  she  inquired. 

"The  girls — where  are  they?" 

"They  went  driving.  They  wanted  to  do  some  shop- 
ping. They  ought  to  be  home  before  long." 

He  had  not  turned  to  look  at  her.  Instead  he  sat 
contemptuously  regarding  a  certain  innovation  in  the 
side-yard:  the  girls  had  been  laying  out  a  tennis-court. 
He  thought  it  all  nonsense;  yet  he  derived  a  certain 
satisfaction  from  the  thought  that  his  girls  were  the 
only  girls  anywhere  about  Pisgah  who  had  as  yet  taken 
any  stock  in  what  he  supposed  was  an  elegant  and 
fashionable  game.  Then  he  looked  up  because  he  had 
heard  the  gate  click;  and  he  saw  Tom  Lott  turning 
away  from  the  gate  and  approaching  him. 

Lott  drew  near  and  paused,  resting  one  foot  on  the 
bottom  step  of  the  veranda.  He  removed  his  hat  and 
wiped  the  sweat  from  his  forehead.  He  did  not  explain 
•why  he  had  called.  This  would  have  been  contrary  to 
his  nature.  He  only  saluted  Minturn  and  then  looked 
away  toward  the  monotonous  vista  of  cotton  lands, 


ROSY  177 

their  crop  thriving  under  a  heat  which  would  have 
caused  growing  corn  to  shrivel  and  die. 

"Looks  like  a  good  year,"  he  said,  as  he  nodded 
toward  the  distant  cotton-fields. 

Minturn  smiled  grimly;  and  in  a  moment  he  jerked 
his  thumb  toward  a  chair  near  him.  "Sit  down,"  he 
said. 

The  bonds  which  united  the  two  men  were  obscure 
and  intangible:  perhaps  they  were  based  wholly  upon 
the  laws  of  propinquity — for  Lott  was  Minturn's  nearest 
neighbor.  There  was  silence  for  a  moment  after  Lott 
had  climbed  the  veranda  steps  and  taken  a  chair.  He 
turned  his  keen,  lean  face  back  the  way  he  had  come: 
back  to  his  own  home  and  the  farm  of  Robert  Nanny. 
There  was  a  gleam  of  malevolent  interest  in  his  shrewd 
black  eyes,  which  were  precisely  suited  to  his  face,  with 
its  thin,  shaven  lips  and  the  harsh  gray  beard  which 
covered  his  chin  sparsely. 

"That  poor  fool  Nanny,"  he  presently  began.  "It's 
strange  the  way  he's  got,  pottering  about  his  place. 
He's  at  it  now.  He  goes  mooning  about  as  if  he  thought 
he  might  find  buried  treasure  somewhere.  He's  like 
a  lunatic:  he'll  look  at  a  bare  spot  on  the  ground  with 
the  darnedest  expression — as  a  man  might  look  at  his 
wife  the  first  time  he  ever  saw  her  asleep.  As  if  she 
was  better  looking  than  he  thought  she  was,  and  as 
if  he  thought  she  might  wake  up  any  minute  and  maybe 
give  him  a  kiss,  or  sing  him  a  song,  or  bake  him  a  cake." 

Minturn  seemed  to  regard  this  as  sorry  nonsense. 
After  all,  what  did  Lott  possess,  that  he  should  hold 
any  man  in  contempt  ?  He  made  no  reply.  His  glance 
was  bent  in  the  general  direction  of  Nanny's  house, 
it  is  true:  but  he  was  watching  a  moving  object  on  the 
valley  road.  It  was  a  carriage;  and  presently  he  knew 
that  his  daughters  were  in  it. 


178  ROSY 

Lott  was  plainly  interested  in  the  arrival  of  the 
daughters,  too.  Both  men  looked  at  the  arriving  car- 
riage without  speaking. 

Evelyn  was  driving;  and  Fanny  got  out  to  open  the 
larger  gate.  The  carriage  passed  beyond  the  unfinished 
tennis-court  and  disappeared  around  the  house. 

Lott  resumed:  "And  his  jailbird  son  ...  it  seems 
strange  they  can't  find  him  anywhere." 

"Maybe  they  haven't  tried  very  hard,"  said  Min- 
turn. 

But  the  other  said  with  emphasis:  "Yes,  they  have. 
It's  not  that.  He's  got  clever  friends.  There's  one  of 
them  .  .  .  she  might  tell  a  good  deal  if  she  wanted  to. 
I  mean  old  Sam  Woodridge's  girl.  She's  been  to  see 
Nanny  three  or  four  times.  And  you  can  see  there's  a 
secret  between  them." 

Minturn  had  been  looking  at  him  with  cold  aloofness. 
He  was  too  busy  a  man  to  care  very  much  about  gossip. 
If  young  Nanny  ever  came  back  he  would  do  his  part 
in  having  him  put  safely  away,  of  course.  A  man  could 
not  run  the  risk  of  having  his  own  horses  stolen.  But 
the  suggestion  that  a  girl  might  be  shielding  him  touched 
his  imagination.  It  would  be  an  extraordinary  situa- 
tion: a  young  girl  befriending  a  convict  who  had  got 
free,  somehow,  and  who  was  defying  the  authorities. 

"I'm  going  to  drive  up  the  mountain  some  day  and 
have  a  look  around,"  added  Lott.  He  turned  toward 
Minturn  and  caught  a  gleam  of  amused  interest  in  his 
eyes.  He  added:  "I'll  stop  by  and  see  if  you've  got 
time  to  go  too."  And  then,  with  the  thought  that  it 
might  be  well  for  Mm  to  belittle  the  adventure,  from  his 
own  point  of  view,  he  added:  "It'll  do  you  good  to  get 
away  for  once.  Everybody  goes  up  the  mountain  once 
in  a  while — everybody  but  you.  I'll  stop  and  let  you 
know." 


ROSY  179 

The  girls  came  out  on  the  porch  now,  and  Evelyn 
began:  "There's  a  buckle  that  won't  work,  pa.  We 
couldn't  get  the  harness  off.  And  ma  hasn't  got  time 
now.  Will  you  go?" 

They  both/  sat  down  close  to  Lott  after  their  father 
had  gone.  They  both  looked  at  the  old  man  with  a 
certain  significance.  In  truth,  it  was  he  who  had  sug- 
gested that  they  go  and  visit  Rosy,  and  keep  on  the 
alert  for  mysterious  sights  and  sounds. 

"Did  you  go?"  he  asked. 

They  both  replied  together,  scarcely  above  a  whisper: 
"Yes!" 

"And  did  you  see  anything?" 

They  did  not  like  to  confess  that  their  visit  had  been 
a  failure.  "She  behaved  very  mysteriously,  I  must 
say,"  said  Evelyn. 

"That's  precisely  what  I  thought  too — very  mys- 
teriously," said  Fanny. 

There  was  no  time  for  either  of  them  to  speak  again. 
Minturn  returned,  grumbling  because  there  was  noth- 
ing to  do  which  the  girls  ought  not  to  have  been  able 
to  do  themselves;  and  a  moment  later  Pemberton,  the 
overseer,  came  up  the  walk. 

Without  a  word  he  handed  a  note  to  Minturn;  and 
Minturn  opened  it  with  a  certain  indifference.  It  was 
a  note  from  one  of  the  older  tenants,  a  negro  named 
Washburn,  who  was  trying  to  maintain  his  oldest  son 
at  Tuskegee.  In  the  note  he  asked  for  an  increase  in 
credit  for  the  remainder  of  the  year,  explaining  that  his 
needs  would  be  fewer  for  the  next  year.  The  appeal 
was  addressed  to  the  overseer. 

Minturn  seemed  only  to  glance  at  the  note.  His  lips 
became  thinner  and  harder,  and  almost  immediately 
he  handed  the  note  back  to  Pemberton.  He  shook  his 
head  once — and  that  was  his  reply. 


i8o  ROSY 

The  group  on  the  veranda  remained  silent  even  after 
the  overseer  had  gone  away;  and  in  a  few  minutes  Lott 
aroused  himself  and  took  his  leave.  He  was  slightly 
disappointed  because  the  girls  had  found  nothing  more 
definite  to  report.  He  consoled  himself  with  the  re- 
minder that  young  girls  could  not  be  expected  to  be 
very  observant,  after  all,  and  that  he  should  probably 
be  much  more  successful  when  he  made  the  projected 
journey  up  to  Moab. 

After  he  was  gone  Minturn  turned  to  the  girls  and 
asked  abruptly:  "How  old  is  that  Woodridge  girl  up 
on  Moab?" 

They  were  greatly  perturbed.  But  Evelyn  managed 
to  say:  "She's  seventeen,  pa." 

"No,  eighteen,"  said  Fanny. 

"That's  right,"  admitted  Evelyn.    "Yes,  eighteen." 

They  stole  swift  glances  at  their  father,  who  said  no 
more,  but  who  seemed  to  be  pondering. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

IT  was  only  two  days  later  when  Lott  and  Minturn 
drove  up  the  mountain  road.  They  reached  the  bench 
shortly  before  four  o'clock;  and  after  a  brief  consulta- 
tion they  alighted  and  led  their  horse  a  little  way  off 
the  road. 

Jacob  Feld  saw  them,  before  they  could  have  known 
that  their  arrival  had  been  noted.  There  was  something 
of  mystery  in  their  manner,  he  thought;  and  his  ex- 
pression became  grave,  and  then  determined.  It  was 
not  that  he  noted  the  absence  of  any  geniality  in  their 
bearing.  Such  a  quality  was  not  to  be  expected  from 
either  of  the  two  men  from  the  valley.  But  already  they 
were  putting  their  heads  together  like  conspirators — as 
if  they  were  unwilling  to  speak  above  a  whisper.  And 
what  business  had  either  man  on  Moab?  Their  work 
all  lay  in  other  directions;  and  he  had  never  heard  of 
either  of  them  going  anywhere  for  pleasure  alone. 

He  pretended  to  pay  no  attention  to  them — though 
it  seemed  improbable  that  they  had  seen  him — and 
sauntered  down  to  the  road  and  walked  away  in  a  direc- 
tion opposite  from  them.  His  face  was  turned  toward 
Rosy's  house. 

He  seemed  to  be  taking  in  the  glories  of  the  waning 
afternoon;  yet  it  might  have  been  observed  that  he 
walked  with  a  certain  purposefulness,  and  not  without 
a  measure  of  haste. 

Rosy,  wearing  a  pair  of  gloves  which  had  been  her 
father's,  and  a  sunbonnet  which  had  been  her  mother's, 
was  working  in  the  garden  patch  at  the  side  of  the  house; 
and  she  heard  him  as  he  approached,  and  straightened 

181 


182  ROSY 

up  and  leaned  on  her  hoe.  Her  face  bloomed  from  health 
and  exertion,  and  her  complexion  was  softer  and  clearer 
because  of  the  moisture  which  glistened  under  her  eyes 
and  on  her  forehead.  Yet  an  expression  of  vague  alarm 
leaped  into  her  eyes  when  she  saw  Feld  approaching. 
There  was  something  strangely  dogged  and  serious  in 
his  mien. 

She  was  not  mistaken  in  surmising  that  something 
quite  out  of  the  ordinary  had  induced  him  to  come  to 
see  her.  She  went  to  the  gate  to  receive  his  message, 
quite  as  she  would  have  done  if  she  had  gone  to  accept 
some  tangible  gift  which  he  carried  in  his  hand.  These 
two  knew  each  other  well — better  in  certain  essential 
ways  than  Feld  and  either  of  his  daughters  knew  each 
other. 

"It's  old  Lott,"  he  began,  with  a  discreet  effect  of 
not  wishing  to  turn  his  head,  and  as  if  his  words  must 
convey  a  definite  meaning  to  her.  "And  Minturn. 
They're  down  the  road,  putting  their  heads  together. 
I  thought  I'd  better  let  you  know." 

She  did  not  move  her  head.  She  managed  to  glance 
with  a  casual  air  down  the  road.  She  could  see  no  one. 
"Yes,  indeed,"  she  said  with  unaffected  gratitude,  "I'm 
glad  you  did.  And  now  Mr.  Feld  ...  if  you'll  just 
go  on,  as  if  you  were  out  for  a  walk  around  the  bench. 
If  they  were  to  guess  that  you  had  come  to  give  me  warn- 
ing. ..."  She  was  asking  herself:  "How  does  he  know 
that — that  I  need  to  be  warned  ?  What  does  he  know  ?  " 

He  read  the  question  in  her  eyes.  "Never  mind, 
Rosy,"  he  said  hurriedly.  "I  saw  Zeb's  horse  here  be- 
fore your  house  the  night  of  the  storm.  That's  all  I 
know."  He  frowned  in  perplexity.  "I  don't  like  to 
leave  you  alone,"  he  went  on.  "If  old  Lott  thought 
there  was  no  one  to  take  your  part?  ..."  He  looked 
at  her  uneasily. 


ROSY  183 

Her  eyes  began  to  blaze.  "Leave  him  to  me,"  she 
said  decisively.  "It's  better  for  you  not  to  be  here — 
much  better."  She  listened,  startled.  "I  hear  some 
one  on  the  road,"  she  whispered.  "Please  go!" 

He  turned  away  reluctantly,  but  he  went  hurriedly, 
nevertheless;  and  he  was  around  a  bend  in  the  road 
before  any  one  save  Rosy  had  seen  him. 

She  returned  to  her  work  in  the  garden,  and  she  pre- 
tended not  to  hear  immediately  when  two  pedestrians 
turned  off  the  road  and  approached  her.  Then  she  looked 
up  with  a  start  and  bent  her  frowning  gaze  on  Lott  and 
Minturn. 

Minturn  was  looking  about  him  with  an  effect  of  being 
there  only  in  a  casual  way;  but  old  Lott  regarded  her 
shrewdly,  unsmilingly,  and  looked  over  her  head  sharply 
toward  the  premises  in  general,  and  toward  the  house. 
He  spoke  to  her  at  length — after  he  had  made  her  furious 
by  his  deliberation  and  the  air  of  confident  authority 
he  wore. 

"Afternoon,  Rosy!"  he  said.  "Doing  a  little  gar- 
dening?" 

She  dropped  her  hoe  and  removed  her  gloves.  She 
seemed  to  be  inspecting  her  hands  thoughtfully;  and 
then  she  said  sharply:  "What  do  you  want,  Mr.  Lott?" 
She  was  now  looking  at  him  relentlessly. 

He  smiled  icily.  "Is  that  the  way  you  receive  visi- 
tors?" he  asked. 

"It's  the  way  I  receive  you,"  she  retorted. 

He  set  his  cunning  to  work.  "Why?"  he  inquired 
mildly.  "So  far  as  I  know  there's  no  reason  why  you 
shouldn't  be  as  civil  to  me  as  to  anybody  else.  Why?" 

"I  have  my  reasons,"  said  Rosy.  "I  don't  want  to 
talk  to  you — that's  all."  She  feared  she  had  blundered 
by  showing  that  she  disliked  him.  What  specific  reason 
could  she  have  given  if  she  had  been  required  to  give 


i84  ROSY 

one?  Yet  she  felt  sure  that  if  she  had  dissembled  he 
would  have  dared  immediately  to  become  domineering, 
or  that  he  would  have  pretended  not  to  see  that  there 
were  limits  to  his  rights.  No,  she  had  adopted  precisely 
the  right  course.  She  turned  away  with  no  further  word 
of  explanation  and  went  into  the  house.  Once  she  looked 
back  over  her  shoulder,  her  eyes  flashing  unfriendliness 
and  defiance. 

She  heard  Lett's  unmusical  laugh;  and  then  she  knew 
that  he  and  Minturn  were  talking  together.  She  cast 
an  anxious  glance  about  the  room  and  was  relieved  to 
note  that  it  revealed  no  special  token  of  occupancy. 

She  knew  very  well  that  she  was  not  as  yet  rid  of  old 
Lott.  Such  an  end  couldn't  have  been  achieved  by  a 
process  so  brief  and  simple.  The  old  man  had  succeeded, 
throughout  a  long  life,  in  gaining  nearly  all  his  ends  by 
a  kind  of  persistence  which  he  fortified  by  a  seeming 
inability  to  recognize  a  rebuff. 

He  now  turned  to  Minturn  with  a  smile  which  had 
in  it  a  measure  of  condescension — toward  the  headstrong 
young  woman,  it  was  to  be  inferred;  and  then  both 
men  began  to  move  leisurely  toward  Rosy's  door. 

The  door  had  been  only  partly  ajar;  but  when  the 
feet  of  the  two  men  were  set  on  the  porch  it  was  flung 
wide  open.  And  there  sat  Rosy  inside  the  door  with 
her  father's  shotgun  across  her  knees,  and  both  her 
hands  upon  it  with  a  suggestion  of  complete  determina- 
tion and  readiness.  Her  left  hand  supported  the  stock, 
so  that  she  might  shift  the  barrel  about  with  a  single 
movement;  and  her  right  hand  was  on  the  lock,  her 
forefinger  touching  the  trigger. 

"It's  loaded  with  No.  8,"  said  Rosy,  "for  turkey. 
And  you'd  better  not  put  a  foot  across  the  sill,  arry  one 
of  you."  In  her  excitement — which  was  not  really  ap- 
parent in  her  face — Rosy  reverted  to  an  ancient  moun- 


ROSY  185 

tain  form  of  speech.  But  old  man  Lott  comprehended 
her  words  perfectly. 

He  discarded  the  suave  manner  which  was  his  best 
weapon.  It  was  plain  that  Rosy's  conduct  was  equiva- 
lent to  a  confession,  and  he  felt  that  his  own  position, 
had  been  strengthened  greatly.  Nor  was  he  unconscious 
of  the  fact  that  this  high-handed  behavior  on  Rosy's 
part  would  have  precisely  the  effect  he  might  have  de- 
sired upon  Rufus  Minturn.  Would  such  a  man  as  Min- 
turn  take  kindly  to  a  reception  like  this — and  would 
he  consent  to  go  away  until  his  mission  had  been  ac- 
complished ? 

He  yielded  to  a  perfectly  candid  impulse — for  the 
first  time,  perhaps,  in  years.  "Rosy,"  he  said,  "we've 
reason  to  believe  you're  harboring  a  criminal  here  in 
your  house,  or  near  by.  A  horse  thief.  It's  our  aim  to 
find  out.  If  you're  an  innocent  young  woman  you'll 
stand  by  and  let  us  search  your  house.  If  you're  not — 
then  so  much  the  worse  for  you." 

She  shifted  the  shotgun  a  little.  "Mr.  Lott,"  she 
rejoined,  "I  reckon  your  ideas  of  what  a  criminal  is  are 
different  from  mine.  But  there's  no  horse  thief  hiding 
in  my  house,  nor  near  it,  so  far  as  I  know.  And  being 
an  'innocent  young  woman,'  I  wouldn't  let  you  set  a 
foot  in  my  house  if  the  devil  was  just  one  step  behind 
you,  with  his  pitchfork  hi  the  small  of  your  back.  Now 
you  can  just  pick  up  and  go.  You've  got  no  business 
here  at  all." 

Minturn  had  been  regarding  her  with  amazement, 
perhaps  with  a  faint  betrayal  of  admiration.  During 
the  silence  which  fell  he  said:  "You  strike  me  as  a  pretty 
headstrong  young  woman,  I  must  say.  If  we've  done 
anything  amiss.  .  .  ." 

She  did  not  wait  for  him  to  frame  his  thought.  She 
regarded  him  with  something  like  tolerance  and  she 


i86  ROSY 

spoke  in  a  different  tone.  "Mr.  Minturn,"  she  said, 
"I  don't  like  to  criticise  people's  company.  But  I  must 
say  you've  come  to  my  house  in  bad  company.  If  it 
should  please  you  to  come  at  any  other  time,  in  com- 
pany with  a  gentleman — with  any  gentleman  you  care 
to  bring — you'll  find  yourself  welcome."  She  flushed 
a  little  as  she  spoke  to  him,  yet  she  spoke  with  a  de- 
cision which  he  could  not  have  missed. 

He  seemed  almost  to  smile.  He  turned  to  Lott  with 
a  faintly  whimsical  expression,  as  if  he  would  have  said: 
"I  reckon  it's  your  move  now!" 

Lott  tried  again.  "It's  our  belief,"  he  began,  in  a 
tone  which  somehow  suggested  official  forms  and  au- 
thority, "that  you're  helping  Zeb  Nanny  to  escape  his 
just  punishment.  We  want  to  make  sure — that's  all." 

Her  indignation  rose  again;  she  seemed  to  forget 
herself  a  little.  "If  Zeb  Nanny  was  in  my  house,"  she 
said,  "and  you  two  should  force  your  way  in,  what  do 
you  suppose  he'd  do?  He'd  pop  your  heads  together 
and  throw  you  to  the  hogs.  If — if  Zeb  really  was  here, 
I'd  be  tempted  to  let  you  in !" 

Her  threat  seemed  to  sting  Minturn,  rather  than 
Lott.  He  began  to  speak  dryly,  yet  inimically.  "We'll 
allow,  Rosy,  that  I  had  no  right  to  call  here  with  Mr. 
Lott.  But  there's  another  friend  of  mine  you  might 
not  object  to.  What  would  you  say  if  I  called  with 
Sheriff  Hammond?  There's  nothing  the  matter  with 
him,  I  suppose;  and  I  think  he'd  consent  to  come  with 
me,  if  I  had  a  word  or  two  with  him." 

If  he  meant  this  as  a  terrifying  threat,  there  was  an 
instant  during  which  it  seemed  that  the  shaft  had  gone 
home.  Rosy's  eyes  wavered  and  fell.  But  she  was  not 
too  greatly  dismayed  to  think  with  a  good  deal  of  shrewd- 
ness. She  happened  to  know  that  the  sheriff  was  up  on 
the  summit:  he  had  moved  his  family  up  only  the  week 


ROSY  187 

before.  But  it  would  take  an  hour  or  so,  perhaps,  to 
find  him  and  return  with  him;  and  by  that  time  dusk 
would  have  enveloped  the  bench. 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  Minturn  with  an  effect  of  perfect 
frankness.  "I've  nothing  at  all  against  Mr.  Hammond," 
she  said.  "If  you'd  like  to  call  with  him  you'll  be  quite 
welcome." 

She  knew  very  well  that  Minturn  had  tied  her  hands, 
in  a  measure;  but  she  had  adopted  the  only  course  which 
seemed  open  to  her.  And  if  her  pulses  throbbed  pain- 
fully as  the  two  men  withdrew  a  little  and  whispered 
together,  she  knew  that  she  needed  only  the  evening 
twilight  as  an  ally,  and  she  should  be  able  to  triumph 
over  them  all,  the  sheriff  included.  To  her  strained 
ears  came  the  sound  of  a  timber  creaking  overhead; 
but  at  the  same  moment  she  realized  that  the  afternoon 
sunlight  had  grown  dimmer,  and  she  knew  that  the 
day  was  nearing  its  end. 

She  watched  Minturn  go  away,  and  she  breathed  a 
prayer — "If  only  he  will  not  come  back  too  soon !"  She 
did  not  move  from  her  place  inside  the  door.  Occasion- 
ally she  shifted  the  shotgun  slightly,  though  she  never 
removed  her  right  hand  from  the  lock.  She  perceived 
that  Lott  was  regarding  her  constantly,  even  when  he 
moved  farther  away  toward  the  road,  and  seemed  to 
be  keeping  the  whole  immediate  vicinity  of  her  house 
in  view. 

Time  passed — an  endless  time,  it  seemed;  and  still 
the  daylight  lingered.  She  began  to  fear  the  failure 
of  her  plans,  after  all.  And  at  last  she  heard  voices, 
and  knew  that  Minturn  was  returning,  with  Hammond. 
She  looked  along  the  road  almost  in  despair.  Yes,  they 
were  coming.  But  she  realized  with  immense  relief 
that  their  figures  were  quite  obscure,  as  they  moved 
along  the  shady  road.  The  room  in  which  she  sat  must 


i88  ROSY 

have  become  quite  shadowy,  she  knew,  to  any  who 
stood  without  and  looked  in. 

She  moved  her  chair  noisily,  as  if  she  meant  the  sound 
to  be  a  sort  of  prelude;  and  then  she  said  warily,  yet 
clearly:  "You  can  come  down,  now.  It's  perfectly  safe. 
You  must  hide  in  the  cavern." 

She  did  not  turn  around;  but  she  knew  that  she  had 
been  heard.  She  heard  the  creak  of  the  ladder.  She 
had  a  faint  sense  of  a  presence  in  the  room  with  her — 
and  then  she  knew  that  she  was  again  alone. 

When  the  three  men  approached  her  door — Hammond 
staring  at  her  incredulously  and  with  honest  regret — • 
she  put  the  gun  aside.  She  had  a  welcoming  smile  for 
the  sheriff.  "A  real  pleasure,  Seth,"  she  said.  "Please 
come  in."  But  she  was  glad  that  the  others  did  not 
enter,  too.  She  did  not  know  that  Hammond  had  for- 
bidden them  to  do  so.  She  felt  that  she  hated  them  im- 
measurably; and  she  cast  a  defiant  glance  at  them  as 
they  went  apart  and  conferred  with  each  other  in  mut- 
tered tones. 

She  was  lighting  the  lamp,  that  the  sheriff  might  see, 
when  he  stopped  her.  "Tell  me,  Rosy — is  he  here?" 
he  asked. 

"I  think  you'd  better  find  that  out  for  yourself," 
she  replied. 

"I'd  a  heap  rather  take  your  word,  Rosy,"  he  de- 
clared. 

She  felt  her  heart  swell.  "Thank  you,  Seth,"  she 
said.  "But  Mr.  Minturn  might  not  be  satisfied — nor 
old  Lott.  You'd  better  look."  She  lighted  the  lamp 
now.  "You  might  look  up  in  the  attic.  That  would 
seem  the  most  likely  place,  I  suppose.  You'd  better 
take  the  lamp  up.  It's  dark  up  there." 

He  took  the  lamp  from  her  hands,  but  his  eyes  were 
on  her  face.  He  turned  from  her  and  looked  into  the 


ROSY  189 

kitchen — and  even  through  the  open  door.  Then  he 
handed  her  the  lamp  and  climbed  the  ladder,  taking 
the  lamp  from  her  as  he  neared  the  top. 

He  remained  in  the  attic  so  long  that  she  began  to 
be  uneasy;  but  at  last  he  descended  the  ladder.  He 
handed  her  the  lamp  and  she  placed  it  on  the  table. 

"I  kain't  find  no  one,"  he  said.  He  stood  ruminating 
a  moment,  and  then,  with  his  glance  resting  on  nothing 
in  particular,  he  began — "Rosy,  since  I've  been  a  she'iff 
I've  been  helped  all  the  way  through  by  studyin'  two 
things:  hosses  and  hats.  They  is  a  lot  to  bosses  and 
hats.  If  I  know  a  man's  hoss  I  know  the  man  bettah 
than  if  I'd  loaned  him  money.  And  hats  .  .  .  you  might 
say  that  hats,  next  to  hosses,  is  the  most  info'min'  paht 
of  a  man's  anatomy.  If  you  find  a  man's  hat — and 
him  absent — you  kin  be  suah  he's  had  a  fall  or  a  fight — 
or  a  simple  case  of  runaway.  Robinson  Crusoe  was 
strong  on  footprints.  But  as  fo'  me,  jest  show  me  a 
hat.  I  alwuss  notice  'em,  on  an'  off.  You  kain't  fool 
me  ovah  a  hat." 

"It's  very  interesting,"  said  Rosy  pleasantly;  but 
she  was  clinching  her  hands  and  her  breath  was  coming 
with  difficulty. 

"Rosy,"  continued  the  sheriff,  "they  is  a  hat  up  in 
youah  attic." 

"I've  no  doubt,"  said  Rosy.  "There's  always  a  lot 
of  rubbish  in  every  attic." 

"They  is  a  hat  in  youah  attic,"  repeated  Hammond, 
pulling  thoughtfully  at  his  mustache;  and  then,  resting 
his  eyes  on  Rosy  benignly  he  added,  "An'  it's  Zeb 
Nanny's  hat." 

She  could  not  speak  for  a  moment.  The  color  had 
forsaken  her  face,  and  her  lips  were  parted  with  an  im- 
pulse to  plead  with  hirn^to  say  no  more. 

But  he  only  added:  ;"H  I  was  you  I'd  put  it  away 


ROSY 

careful,  Rosy;    an'  then  if  you  evah  see,  Zeb  you  kin 
give  it  to  him.    Good  night,  Rosy." 

And  she  saw  him  a  moment  later,  his  immense  bulk 
towering  over  the  mean  figures  of  Minturn  and  Lott, 
out  in  the  road  where  the  night  was  falling.  He  was 
plainly  making  his  report  to  them,  and  Rosy  knew  per- 
fectly well  that  she  need  not  fear  what  that  report  would 
be. 


CHAPTER  XX 

SHE  seemed  quite  unusually  happy  as  she  set  about 
the  task  of  preparing  supper.  She  did  not  hurry. 
Rather,  she  seemed  deliberate  with  that  deliberation 
which  accompanies  blissful,  placid  dreams.  So  many 
people  were  good  to  her !  She  sang  as  she  worked.  When 
she  glanced  into  the  pot  where  there  were  only  potatoes 
she  seemed  to  see  pictures.  And  occasionally  she  simply 
stood  with  her  hand  resting  on  the  work-table,  and  her 
eyes  cast  down,  dreaming  with  the  candor  of  one  who 
believes  in  dreams  and  is  not  ashamed  of  them. 

When  she  came  to  mash  the  potatoes  she  did  it  with 
a  sort  of  bliss — as  if  at  the  very  least  she  were  laying 
up  treasures  for  herself  in  heaven.  She  put  butter  in 
as  if  she  were  putting  a  parenthesis  into  a  prayer.  Her 
hand,  shaking  the  salt  and  pepper  in,  seemed  to  be  con- 
ferring blessings  or  performing  a  rite. 

She  listened,  with  the  pensive  joy  of  a  woman  who 
hears  a  love-song,  sung  for  others  now  but  at  one  time 
sung  to  her  alone,  to  the  passers-by  along  the  bench 
road.  The  darkness  did  not  make  these  passings  seem 
sad.  On  the  contrary,  she  knew  that  the  gleam  of  her 
light  in  the  window  would  please  those  strangers  and 
others  who  passed,  just  as  their  voices  and  the  pounding 
hoofs  of  the  horses  comforted  her. 

When  she  opened  the  oven  door  she  sniffed  the  odor 
of  the  browning  biscuits  with  a  joy  as  ecstatic  as  that 
of  a  kitten  that  is  being  caressed.  She  touched  them 
just  so  to  see  if  they  were  done  all  the  way  through. 
And  finding  them  done,  her  eyes  gleamed  as  if  she  had 

191 


i92  ROSY 

come  upon  nuggets  of  gold.  She  took  the  pan  from 
the  oven  and  bore  it  across  the  room  as  if  she  were  carry- 
ing garlands  to  cast  before  a  king,  or  as  if  she  were  the 
central  figure  in  a  pageant  of  graces. 

Rosy  never  did  anything  meanly;  and  often  she  bore 
herself  regally,  as  if  she  had  been  informed  by  a  Voice 
that  the  place  which  so  many  stupid  folk  call  Earth 
was,  in  fact,  that  Heaven  which  the  poets  have  painted 
as  a  place  without  crosses. 

She  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  over  the  salad  which 
she  had  made  of  lettuce  from  her  garden,  and  cucumbers 
sliced  very  thin,  and  an  onion  used  so  sparingly  that  it 
was  not  to  be  seen.  She  added  oil  as  fastidiously  as  a 
poet  admitting  a  different  word  to  his  stanza. 

And  at  last  her  moment  of  perplexity  came.  You 
would  have  recognized  it  by  the  sudden  cessation  of  all 
activity,  save  the  lifting  of  a  finger  to  her  lower  lip.  But 
the  solution  came  instantly — as  her  eyes  made  known. 
She  took  a  basket  from  its  peg  on  the  wall  and  spread 
a  napkin  over  the  bottom  of  it.  And  then  she  began 
to  adjust  dishes  in  the  bottom  of  the  basket.  She  ar- 
ranged them  according  to  a  precise  plan,  with  the  fried 
bacon  in  the  middle,  and  the  mashed  potatoes  on  one 
side,  and  the  biscuits  and  the  salad,  together  with  wine- 
colored  jelly  in  a  little  pot,  on  the  other,  with  coffee-cups 
and  sugar  for  the  coffee  and  knives  and  forks  and  spoons 
and  dishes  at  the  two  ends.  Then  she  cast  a  swift  glance 
toward  the  road;  and  finding  it  temporarily  empty— 
and  possibly  empty  for  the  remainder  of  the  night,  now 
• — she  took  the  coffee-pot  from  the  stove  in  one  hand 
and  the  basket  in  the  other  and  moved  stealthily  out 
of  the  back  door. 

At  first  she  thought  of  standing  at  the  top  of  the  well 
and  calling;  but  she  changed  her  mind.  There  was 
just  one  chance  in  a  thousand  that  some  one  might  hear; 


ROSY  193 

and  besides,  it  would  be  delightful  to  take  Nat  by  sur- 
prise. 

She  placed  her  coffee-pot  on  the  ground  and  made 
a  descent  of  the  well  first  with  her  basket.  And  this 
being  deposited  at  the  bottom  she  climbed  back  and 
got  the  coffee-pot.  She  moved  with  the  stealth  of  a 
mouse;  and  when  finally  she  entered  the  main  body  of 
the  cavern,  with  a  burden  in  either  hand,  she  had  ac- 
tually served  no  notice  at  all  of  her  coming. 

Then  at  the  last  moment  the  solemnity  of  the  place 
smote  her  almost  unpleasantly.  It  was  very  dark,  de- 
spite that  great  irregular  area  of  night  sky  which  marked 
the  opening  of  the  cavern  at  its  opposite  end.  She 
thought  it  strange,  too,  that  she  could  not  hear  him. 
Had  he  by  any  chance  decided  at  the  last  moment  not 
to  come  to  this  sombre  refuge?  Was  it  believable  that 
he  had  taken  advantage  of  the  darkness  to  make  his 
final  escape? 

She  spoke  his  name  scarcely  above  a  whisper;  and 
it  seemed  to  her  that  great  weights  were  lifted  from  her 
heart  when  he  answered  her  immediately — answered 
peevishly,  in  token  that  he  was  not  only  there,  but  that 
he  had  not  changed  at  all. 

"Good  heavens,  Rosy!"  he  exclaimed,  "where  have 
you  been  all  this  time?" 

She  could  never  understand  those  persons  who  find 
idle  hours  burdensome.  To  her  it  was  enough  just  to 
live,  even  if  one  must  occasionally  remain  in  one  spot 
a  long  time  without  moving.  Her  body  seemed  to  have 
its  emotions,  quite  apart  from  those  of  her  mind.  She 
did  not  reply  to  his  question.  "I've  brought  your 
supper,"  she  said. 

"Have  they  gone?"  he  asked. 

"Of  course.  And  their  coming  didn't  matter  in  the 
least.  Doesn't  that  make  you  laugh?" 


194  ROSY 

It  did  not  make  him  laugh,  obviously. 

She  continued:  "Did  you  know  who  it  was?" 

His  reply  was  that  of  one  who  would  not  be  appeased. 
"You  don't  think  I'm  deaf,  do  you?" 

But  she  was  scarcely  paying  any  attention  to  him. 
The  drama  in  which  she  was  taking  a  part  was  so  satis- 
fying from  her  own  point  of  view  that  she  did  not  think 
very  much  about  how  it  appeared  to  any  one  else.  She 
said:  "Be  careful  where  you  step.  You  must  imagine 
yourself  all  surrounded  by  mashed  potatoes  and  a  salad 
and  dishes.  I'm  going  to  bring  a  light." 

"I  already  imagine  myself  surrounded  by  chasms," 
he  said.  "You  needn't  fear  that  I'll  go  prancing  about 
while  you're  gone.  I  haven't  lost  my  wits  entirely." 

"Well  .  .  ."  she  replied,  as  if  she  were  considering 
this.  And  the  next  moment  he  knew  that  she  was  gone, 
not  because  he  could  not  see  her,  but  because  of  a  dif- 
ferent quality  in  the  silence  which  engulfed  him.  He 
called  after  her  warily,  and  with  an  irritating  sense  of 
not  knowing  just  where  to  look,  or  whether  he  might 
call  out  in  safety:  "Don't  bring  it  lighted.  You  might 
fall.  Put  it  out.  You  can  light  it  again." 

He  heard  her  voice  from  the  top  of  the  well,  faint, 
elfin-like:  "All  right,  Adam."  He  had  an  idea  she  was 
laughing  at  him. 

...  He  felt  his  scalp  move  a  few  minutes  later. 
Something  had  fallen  with  a  flopping  sound  to  the  bottom 
of  the  well.  He  almost  expected  to  hear,  following  this 
sound,  the  moans  of  one  dying.  But  he  was  reassured 
by  Rosy's  voice,  calling  down  to  him  in  a  small  yet  carry- 
ing volume  of  sound:  "It's  a  blanket.  For  us  to  sit 
on."  And  then  he  knew  that  she  was  climbing  down  the 
rough  sides  of  the  well.  He  was  amazed  anew  by  her 
handiness,  the  ease  with  which  she  did  everything.  She 
was  quite  near  him  in  another  instant.  She  was  striking 


ROSY  195 

a  match.  He  saw  her  place  the  lamp  on  the  floor  of  the 
cavern;  and  when  she  handled  the  lamp  chimney  in 
a  sort  of  gingerly  way,  because  it  was  hot,  he  did  not 
attempt  to  assist  her.  He  knew  she  could  manage  better 
by  herself. 

The  lamplight  seemed  rather  dim,  even  after  the 
chimney  had  been  put  back  into  place.  There  was  a 
great  deal  of  the  cavern  to  be  illuminated:  vague 
recesses,  which  seemed  interminable  in  certain  direc- 
tions. Yet  he  was  immeasurably  relieved  by  the  faint 
beams.  He  looked  into  Rosy's  face — or  at  the  one  side 
which  was  touched  by  the  light — and  it  seemed  to  him 
incredible  that  she  should  present  an  appearance  so 
care-free.  Indeed,  she  seemed  superlatively  pleased. 

"You  must  get  out  of  the  way,"  she  said.  "Things 
must  be  got  ready."  She  cautioned  him,  unnecessarily: 
"Don't  go  too  far  toward  the  opening.  The  light  might 
blind  you.  You  might  tumble." 

Her  words  had  the  effect  of  seeming  to  make  his  scalp 
move  again.  He  thought  of  all  that  was  comprehended 
by  that  word  tumble.  He  stepped  cautiously  aside,  re- 
garding her  wonderingly. 

She  had  spread  the  blanket  on  the  floor  before  he 
fully  perceived  what  she  meant  to  do.  Currents  of  air, 
escaping  from  under  the  blanket,  nearly  extinguished 
the  light. 

"Look  out!"  he  cried;  but  she  only  continued  to 
move  about  with  energy  and  decision,  humming  a  little 
tune.  She  set  the  lamp  on  the  middle  of  the  blanket. 
Then,  down  on  her  knees,  she  began  to  unload  the  basket. 
She  spread  napkins.  She  poured  coffee.  A  new  odor 
began  to  permeate  the  place  of  emptiness  and  disuse. 
She  seemed  a  sort  of  benevolent  witch,  waving  a  wand 
in  a  desert  and  making  flowers  bloom:  striking  a  rock 
and  making  water  flow.  She  liberated  a  new  spirit. 


196  ROSY 

Her  voice  arose  like  a  fragmentary  song  of  cheer.  She 
pitched  her  face  up,  so  that  the  light  played  about  her 
throat.  "Why  don't  you  sit  down?"  she  asked.  "You 
seemed  to  be  in  such  a  hurry — and  now  it  appears  that 
you  don't  care  whether  you  eat  or  not." 

"I  wasn't  thinking  about  eating,"  he  said.  "Does 
that  seem  to  you  the  main  thing?" 

"It's  one  of  the  main  things.  Just  now  it's  the  main 
thing.  What  else,  should  you  say?"  She  leaned  back 
on  her  heels.  "Is  there  anything  else  you'd  rather  I'd 
brought  than  these  biscuits?  Look  at  them!"  She 
lifted  one  and  held  it  toward  him  in  the  hollow  of  her 
hand.  Her  lips  were  smiling;  there  was  ecstasy  in  her 
eyes. 

"I'm  wondering  what  I'm  going  to  do,"  he  said. 
"How  long  I'll  have  to  stay  here.  You  don't  suppose 
I  mean  to  stay  here  all  night?" 

Her  interest  seemed  suddenly  to  become  suspended. 
Her  forehead  became  delicately  furrowed.  The  signif- 
icance of  Sheriff  Hammond's  lenient  action  filled  her 
mind.  He  was  an  honorable  man,  besides  being  a  gen- 
erous friend.  She  had  often  heard  of  his  doing  stern 
duties  in  a  stern  way.  She  could  trace  the  working  of 
his  mind,  when  he  stood  there  in  her  house  before  her. 
He  was  convinced  that  Nanny  was  somewhere  about; 
but  he  believed  that  he  was  not  really  a  bad  man,  and 
so  he  could  see  his  way  clear  to  making  only  a  super- 
ficial search.  Still,  Nanny  was  an  escaped  convict,  and 
it  would  injure  Rosy  if  he  were  found  in  her  house — 
which  afforded  another  reason  why  he  should  not  search 
for  him  too  zealously.  But  he  had  done  all  that  he  could 
do  for  friendship's  sake  in  giving  Rosy  a  word  of  warn- 
ing. He  might  come  again,  if  duty  required  it;  and 
she  must  not  make  his  course  needlessly  difficult.  She 
must  do  her  part. 


ROSY  197 

She  looked  at  Minturn  now  with  wide  eyes.  "All 
night!"  she  repeated.  "Why,  of  course.  Weeks  and 
weeks,  I  should  say.  Until  there's  no  danger  of  their 
searching  the  house  again,  anyway.  You  mustn't  be 
found,  you  know !" 

He  began  to  eat  the  food  she  had  prepared  for  him, 
but  he  seemed  to  have  almost  no  appetite  at  all.  "I 
think  I  might  go  mad,"  he  said  presently.  "Anything 
would  be  better  than  this." 

She  lifted  the  lid  off  the  jelly-pot.  "Nothing  could 
be  better,"  she  declared.  She  seemed  determined  to 
persuade  him  to  view  the  situation  as  she  did.  To  her 
it  was  a  thrilling  adventure.  It  would  have  seemed 
like  a  fairy-tale  come  true,  but  for  certain  aspects  which 
she  could  not  permit  herself  to  consider.  "I'm  going  to 
fix  the  place  up  for  you,"  she  said.  "I'm  going  to  make 
it  charming.  The  sun  will  come  in  in  the  morning,  and 
the  most  wonderful  picture  will  be  spread  before  your 
eyes.  You'll  hear  the  birds  sing.  You'll  see  the  river, 
like  a  ribbon.  There  will  be  a  boat  on  it  maybe — like 
a  little  lovely  bug,  crawling  along !  And  you'll  have  a 
chair,  and  nothing  will  disturb  you.  You  can  imagine 
that  you  are  a  great  scholar,  or  that  you  have  deserted 
the  world  because  of  its  sins.  You  ought  to  sit  in  a  very 
romantic  way."  She  pondered.  "I  think  you  might 
have  your  legs  crossed,  if  that  wouldn't  seem  too  worldly. 
You  must  hold  your  chin  rather  high,  and  your  eyes 
must  be  perfectly  calm." 

He  interrupted:  "And  just  sit,  and  sit,  and  sit.  .  .  ." 

"It  can't  be  tiresome.  My  goodness ! — one  day  there 
will  be  the  wind,  and  another  day  a  perfect  calm.  And 
the  thunder !  Some  day  the  clouds  will  float  right  into 
the  cavern  where  you  sit,  and  you'll  hear  the  thunder 
rolling  about  the  mountain !  And  there'll  be  one  season 
after  another " 


198  ROSY 

"Rosy!"  he  protested.  "You  talk  as  if  I'd  have  to 
sit  here  forever!" 

He  was  spreading  jelly  on  a  biscuit;  and  it  suddenly 
occurred  to  her  to  regard  him  as  he  really  was,  and  not 
as  she  had  dreamed  him  to  be.  Her  glance  became  in- 
stantly appraising,  and  then  amazed.  He  was  eating 
with  a  certain  mean  industry,  and  he  was  frowning  .  .  . 
and  she  had  put  that  jelly  up  with  a  song,  and  had  caught 
the  sunshine  in  it!  She  shook  her  head  despairingly. 
"You're  a  pretty  strange  sort  of  an  Adam,  I  must  say," 
she  declared. 

He  seemed  not  to  hear  this.  He  was  deeply  absorbed 
in  his  own  outstanding  problems. 

She  assumed  a  sudden  gravity — as  if  she  were  putting 
on  a  garment  which  she  did  not  like.  She  realized  that 
she  must  make  allowances  for  his  unhappy  plight.  What 
man,  or  woman  either,  would  behave  just  as  usual,  under 
all  the  circumstances?  "You  must  try  not  to  worry," 
she  said  gently.  "I  know  it  isn't  very  pleasant.  Only, 
I  want  you  to  make  the  best  of  it.  We'll  hope  you'll 
not  have  to  stay  here  so  very  long,  after  all.  And  there 
are  ever  so  many  things  I  can  do  to  make  you  comfort- 
able. I  can  get  you  something  to  read.  I'll  bring  a  lot 
of  father's  books  down  from  the  attic.  And  much  of 
the  time  I'll  be  able  to  stay  here  with  you — if  you  care 
about  that." 

She  arose  a  little  sadly.  She  was  not  deeply  grieved, 
certainly;  but  her  sensations  were  those  of  a  child  who 
wishes  to  play  a  game  and  who  is  roughly  told  that  her 
game  is  only  make-believe.  She  went  away,  and  soon 
she  was  back  again,  this  time  with  bedding  and  a  pitcher 
of  water. 

"I'm  going  to  leave  the  lamp,"  she  said  finally.  "It 
won't  seem  so  lonesome  if  you  have  a  light.  And  I'll 
have  a  nice  breakfast  for  you,  early  in  the  morning." 


ROSY  199 

She  went  away,  still  further  inclined  to  be  downcast, 
because  his  only  reply  to  this  was:  "I'll  not  have  any 
fear  of  your  oversleeping,  Rosy." 

Still,  her  high  spirits  were  restored  when  she  turned 
away  from  the  well,  toward  her  house.  She  possessed, 
in  a  measure,  the  feeling  of  the  magician  who  can  create 
strange  worlds  at  will.  She  was  thinking  of  that  region 
under  the  mountain,  not  as  a  dismal  cavern  containing 
a  discontented  man,  but  as  a  place  where  strange  and 
wonderful  things  might  yet  occur. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  feeling  that  she  was  taking  part  in  a  play — a 
play  of  certain  obscurities,  yet  of  real  promise — returned 
to  her  in  the  morning.  She  was  impatient  to  make  her 
appearance  down  in  the  hidden  cavern,  to  learn  how 
the  unwilling  lodger  in  that  strange  place  had  passed 
the  night.  She  was  in  the  position  of  a  chef  who  con- 
cocts a  new  dish  and  requires  his  assistant  to  partake 
of  the  first  bite.  She  was  not  wholly  confident  that 
the  cavern  was  a  desirable  place  in  which  to  spend  the 
whole  night  alone.  She  even  imagined  that  goblins 
might  make  their  appearance  there  at  midnight  and 
dance  horribly  until  daybreak.  The  place  was  so  very 
old  and  unf  athomed ! 

However,  she  placed  a  check  upon  her  impatience. 
She  was  not  unaware  of  the  fact  that  the  greatest  kind- 
ness one  can  show  to  an  unhappy  man  is  to  leave  him 
alone  when  he  is  asleep.  "And,"  she  reflected,  "he 
certainly  can  sleep  in  the  morning,  when  other  people 
are  beginning  to  be  tired  of  their  beds." 

The  shadows  would  linger  a  long  time  in  the  cavern, 
even  after  the  sun  was  searching  out  the  mountainside, 
up  on  the  bench,  in  the  most  persistent  manner.  The 
mouth  of  the  cavern  was  toward  the  south;  and  though 
the  direct  rays  of  the  sun  entered  it  during  certain 
months,  they  did  not  do  so  until  near  midday. 

She  believed  she  had  manifested  much  consideration 
in  not  going  to  him  until  the  clock  marked  the  hour  of 
seven.  She  felt  that  it  would  be  absurd  for  any  one  to 
continue  to  sleep  at  that  hour;  and  she  put  the  finish- 
ing touches  to  his  breakfast  (she  had  eaten  her  own 

200 


ROSY  201 

poached  eggs  two  hours  earlier)  and  went  down  into 
the  cavern  with  a  gay,  subdued  song — first  looking  warily 
to  see  that  the  bench  road  was  empty. 

She  drew  back  a  little  and  there  was  an  effect  of  her 
whole  being  having  been  silenced  when  she  saw  him. 
He  was  not  assuming  any  of  those  romantic  postures 
which  she  had  chosen  for  him  as  the  proper  thing.  He 
was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  light,  and  she  knew 
that  he  was  regarding  her  intently.  And  she  could  tell 
by  his  attitude — by  something  in  the  outlines  of  his 
form — that  he  was  not  playing  his  part  in  the  drama 
as  it  should  have  been  played. 

"You  look  just  as  if  you  were  about  to  fly  to  pieces," 
she  said,  putting  down  the  basket.  She  added,  with  a 
note  of  remorseful  jollity — "I  know  what's  the  matter. 
You  didn't  have  any  basin,  and  you  couldn't  wash  your 
face!" 

He  moved  forward  as  if  he  were  angry.  He  passed 
her  and  went  to  the  opening  in  the  cavern  through  which 
he  could  look  up  into  the  well — and  toward  the  world 
of  normal  activities  from  which  he  was  excluded.  Then 
he  turned  toward  her,  exclaiming  harshly:  "Wash  my 
face !  It  seems  to  me  the  strangest  thing  .  .  .  you  keep 
on  thinking  about  trifles  that  don't  count  at  all.  Do 
you  think  I'd  worry  just  because  I  hadn't — washed 
my  face  ?  Great  God !  Think  of  the  fix  I'm  in — down 
here  in  a  place  like  a  grave,  with  no  prospect  of  getting 
out  ...  I  can't  do  it,  Rosy !  I  should  go  crazy.  You'll 
scarcely  understand  .  .  .  but  it  doesn't  even  mean  any- 
thing to  me,  any  more,  that  I've  got  you  for  company 
part  of  the  time,  and  that  you're  trying  to  help  me. 
You  seem  to  have  become  as  unimportant  as  the  kind 
of  shoes  I've  got  to  wear,  or  what  I  have  for  dinner. 
I  can't  help  seeing  the  one  big  thing  of  all — the  liberty 
I've  lost.  I  was  crazy  to  think  I  could  hide  until  the 


202  ROSY 

war  is  over.  It  seems  now  as  if  it  might  never  be  over. 
And  even  when  it  is  ...  you  see,  I'm  ruined  forever, 
unless  I  can  get  entirely  away  somewhere.  And  this 
horrible  place  here  ...  I  tell  you,  I'm  going  to  get  out, 
Rosy.  I  must.  I've  asked  you  to  go  with  me.  You've 
got  your  choice.  But  I'm  going,  if  I  have  to  go  alone." 

Her  buoyancy  had  deserted  her  completely.  But 
something  more  fundamental  than  that  was  leaving 
her  too.  Her  interest  in  him — her  latent  faith  that  he 
could  be  induced  to  continue  his  part  in  those  events 
upon  which  her  destiny  depended — was  receding.  She 
was  furious  because  he  had  said — as  if  he  were  behaving 
generously — "I've  asked  you  to  go  with  me."  For  an 
instant  she  was  tempted  to  stand  aside  and  bid  him 
begone — to  tell  him  that  she  did  not  care  what  he  did. 

She  remained  silent  for  a  time,  and  then  she  said  in 
a  low  voice:  "I  really  don't  see  how  you  can  go  away, 
unless  you  mean  to  run  a  great  risk."  And  then  it  oc- 
curred to  her  that  it  was  not  honorable  to  seek  to  per- 
suade him  to  stay,  when  her  chief  motive — almost  her 
only  motive,  now — was  to  protect  the  interests  of  an- 
other, rather  than  his  own  interests.  But  on  the  other 
hand,  since  she  had  opened  her  door  to  him  at  a  time 
when  she  had  nothing  at  all  to  gain  by  doing  so,  was  it 
more  than  a  fair  bargain  that  he  should  remain  now  a 
little  longer,  at  least,  because  she  wished  it? 

She  poured  his  coffee  for  him;  and  the  odor  of  it,  and 
the  little  wisps  of  steam  which  went  floating  away  into 
the  open,  seemed  to  clear  the  atmosphere  for  both  of 
them.  She  found  a  level  spot  on  which  to  place  the 
coffee-pot.  "You've  no  idea  how  many  things  I  can 
do  to  make  it  all  easier  for  you,"  she  went  on  more  hope- 
fully. "I've  been  planning.  You're  to  have  some  furni- 
ture down  here :  so  that  it  will  seem  almost  like  a  room  in 
a  house.  Like  a  room  in  a  castle,  you  might  imagine." 


ROSY  203 

She  looked  up  at  him  soothingly,  with  a  faint  smile  on 
her  lips,  as  she  handed  his  coffee  to  him.  She  felt  like 
a  very  ancient  wise  creature  when  she  found  how  easily 
she  had  diverted  his  troubled  thoughts. 

"Furniture?"  he  echoed  almost  childishly.  "What 
.furniture  could  you  get  into  a  place  like  this?" 

She  began  to  enumerate.  "A  bed  and  a  table;  chairs, 
books,  newspapers.  I've  been  thinking  how  I  could 
drape  parts  of  the  walls,  but  I  haven't  worked  that  out 
yet." 

He  seemed  really  interested,  though  sceptical.  "How 
are  you  to  get  such  things  here  ?  It's  all  you  and  I  could 
do  to  get  through  that  opening  there.  When  it  comes 
to  a  table- 
She  went  into  the  matter  briskly.  "I  could  carry 
it  out  back  of  the  house,  to  the  edge  of  the  cliffs,  and 
let  it  down  with  a  rope — to-night,  after  dark.  I  could 
tie  the  rope  to  a  tree;  and  then  we  could  pull  the  table 
in  at  the  opening.  The  other  things  the  same  way.  It 
would  be  quite  simple." 

But  she  had  not  convinced  him.  "It  would  be  quite 
simple,"  he  said  derisively,  "for  you  to  throw  yourself 
over  the  edge  of  the  precipice  up  there.  I'll  not  have 
you  taking  any  such  chances  for  my  sake." 

She  was  glad  he  had  thought  to  add  that  final  clause. 
It  gave  her  heart  to  persevere.  "There'd  be  no  risk 
at  all.  I've  often  wanted  to  do  just  that — ever  since 
I  was  a  little  girl.  I've  an  excuse  now.  I  could  let  two 
chairs  down :  a  dignified  chair,  for  you,  and  a  little  chair 
for  me.  I  could  sit  in  mine  and  sew,  and  you  could  be 
there,  ever  so  much  higher  than  me,  reading  to  me.  Or 
we  could  just  sit  and  imagine  things.  I  can't  think  of 
anything  that  would  be  such  fun!" 

He  was  drinking  his  coffee:  first  listlessly  and  then 
with  a  slightly  awakened  sense  of  her  cheerfulness,  of 


204  ROSY 

her  kindness.  The  evils  of  the  night,  largely  imaginary, 
after  all,  were  receding  and  becoming  dim.  The  horror 
of  the  loneliness  and  silence  was  gone. 

He  took  soft-boiled  eggs  from  the  steaming  hot  towel 
in  which  she  had  wrapped  them,  so  that  they  would 
retain  their  heat,  and  began  to  open  them.  "It  might 
be  managed,"  he  said. 

She  sat  on  the  blanket  which  had  been  spread  as  a 
carpet  and  wound  her  arms  about  her  knees.  Her  face 
was  pitched  upward  and  she  was  taking  in  the  unlimited 
dark  spaces  of  the  cavern,  which  were  beginning  to  exert 
their  spell  over  her  again.  She  had  not  looked  out  into 
the  region  of  sunlit  air  for  many  minutes,  and  as  a  result 
her  vision  penetrated  the  dark  hollows  of  the  cavern. 
She  thought  it  might  be  exciting  to  pretend  that  evil 
spirits  were  there  in  hiding,  and  that  they  meant  to  cast 
her  and  her  companion  out  of  their  paradise.  She 
thought:  "It  would  be  his  part  to  fight  the  evil  spirits; 
and  when  he  began  to  fail,  after  a  brave  fight,  it  would 
be  my  part  to  conquer  them  by  some  sort  of  witchcraft." 
She  tried  to  decide  what  sort  of  magic  power  she  might 
imagine  herself  to  possess;  and  then  she  gave  up  the 
entire  scheme,  because  she  felt  he  would  not  like  it. 
She  must  picture  only  cheerful  and  friendly  influences 
around  them.  She  was  discouraged  because  he  would 
not  help  her — by  so  much  as  a  sympathetic  attitude. 
She  felt  that  she  might  have  thought  of  precisely  the 
right  plans  if  he  would  only  say — "What  jolly  times  we 
shall  have  here,  Rosy!"  But  that,  plainly,  was  pre- 
cisely what  he  would  never  say. 

She  felt  suddenly  bored.  She  wanted  to  get  away. 
She  was  sorry  that  she  could  dream  such  satisfactory 
dreams  when  she  was  only  a  little  distance  from  him, 
while  her  powers  of  magic  were  robbed  from  her  the 
moment  she  got  with  him.  He  was  like  a  heavy  burden 


ROSY  205 

on  her  back,  preventing  her  from  running,  or  even  from, 
walking  upright. 

She  prepared  to  leave  him  presently.  "I'll  be  back 
off  and  on,"  she  said.  "But  you  know  I  can't  do  very 
much  until  it's  dark.  Wait  until  I  put  the  furniture  in, 
and  see  how  different  everything  will  be!  Then  we'll 
decide  what  it  shall  be.  Maybe  a  throne-room.  Or  a 
philosopher's  secret-chamber.  We  can  imagine  you 
are  framing  plans  to  set  up  a  government — or  to  over- 
throw one.  Or  we  can  imagine  you  are  one  of  those 
fellows  .  .  .  what  do  you  call  them  ?  Yes — alchemists ! 
And — oh  .  .  .  philters!"  She  brought  her  hands  to- 
gether sharply  and  repeated  the  word — "philters!" 

He  looked  at  her  blankly,  with  drooping  lip. 

She  only  said,  after  catching  the  expression  on  his 
face,  "Let  me  get  out  of  here !"  and  he  heard  her  laugh- 
ing forlornly  in  the  distance. 

During  the  afternoon  she  strolled  along  the  bench 
road;  and  when  she  arrived  at  the  spring  she  knew  very 
well  that  she  had  been  wishing  to  talk  to  Jacob  Feld, 
though  she  had  been  unaware  that  this  was  what  she 
wished  to  do.  She  recalled  her  disappointment  at  not 
finding  him  at  the  spring  when  she  went  in  the  early 
morning  to  fetch  water. 

But  he  was  there  now,  and  he  looked  at  her  signif- 
icantly as  she  approached.  There  was  an  expression 
in  his  eyes  which  said  plainly:  "Well,  are  you  going  to 
tell  me  all  about  it  ?  "  She  knew  that  he  wished  to  know 
about  her  encounter  with  Lott  and  Minturn  and  Ham- 
mond— though  she  knew  also  that  he  would  not  press 
her  to  tell  him. 

"It  was  nothing,"  she  said  briefly.  "They  came  and 
looked  and  went  away — and  that  was  all  there  was  to 
it."  She  avoided  his  eyes  for  the  moment.  She  knew 


206  ROSY 

they  would  be  asking  silently — "But  isn't  Zeb  there, 
really?"  She  was  unwilling  to  discuss  the  subject. 

She  was  relieved  when  she  read  in  his  eyes  that  his 
mind  had  changed  to  another  subject.  He  began  to 
smile  thoughtfully  and  to  weigh  some  matter. 

"What  is  it,  Mr.  Feld?"  she  asked. 

"Springer,"  he  replied.    "I  was  thinking  of  Springer." 

"What's  he  been  doing  now?"  she  wanted  to  know. 
Springer  had  been  the  most  tactless  of  all  the  Germans 
round  about — always  offending  some  one  with  his  boasts 
of  how  Germany  led  all  the  other  nations. 

Old  Jacob  led  the  way  to  a  seat  and  they  both  sat 
down,  Rosy  smoothing  her  skirts  quite  as  Feld  remem- 
bered her  having  done  when  she  was  a  little  girl. 

"You  know,"  began  the  old  man,  "Springer  don't 
sell  no  more  truck  to  the  people  of  Pisgah  on  Saturdays, 
as  he  used  to  do?" 

Rosy  knew  this,  but  she  did  not  wish  to  spoil  a  story; 
and  so  she  said  interestedly:  "No?" 

"No.  He — queered  himself,  what  you  call  it.  First, 
he  told  everybody  that  Germany  was  going  to  win.  He 
stuck  his  chest  out.  You  could  hear  him  from  one  end 
of  the  block  to  the  other.  And  that  made  everybody 
mad,  and  they  told  him  he  needn't  come  around  no  more 
with  his  produce.  So.  And  the  very  next  week  he  shows 
up  again — this  time  with  an  American  flag  on  his  wagon. 
And  he  says  to  everybody — 'We're  going  to  get  the 
Huns!'  Talking  just  the  other  way,  you  see.  But  it 
didn't  look  right,  on  account  he  had  changed  too  quick, 
after  they  wouldn't  buy  his  stuff.  And  everybody  just 
looked  at  him  as  if  they  didn't  know  him,  and  says: 
'We  don't  need  nothing  this  morning,  Springer.'  Poor 
Springer !  He  told  me  about  it  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 
He  had  done  one  thing,  and  then  he  had  done  the  op- 
posite, and  both  times  he  got  in  bad,  what  you  call  it. 
He  asked  me,  'What  can  you  do  with  such  people?' 


ROSY  207 

"He  went  home  mad  all  the  way  through.  He  told 
his  wife  he  would  feed  his  apples  and  the  rest  to  the 
hogs.  But  he  got  no  comfort  from  her.  She  said  'But 
William,  if  they  won't  buy  your  apples,  will  they  any 
more  buy  your  hogs?'  He  shouted  to  her  to  be  silent, 
and  to  speak  only  of  the  things  she  comprehended.  He 
went  on  growling  about  the  unreasonable  Americans. 
He  said  they  were  as  bad  as  women — who,  as  everybody 
knew,  were  nothing  unless  there  was  some  one  in  au- 
thority over  them. 

"He  stayed  mad  with  his  wife  for  days  and  days," 
continued  old  Jacob.  "And  instead  of  trying  to 
straighten  him  out,  she  got  just  as  mad  as  he  was — • 
maybe  a  little  madder,  on  account  she  wasn't  allowed 
to  say  nothing — to  spit  it  out,  what  you  call  it." 

Rosy  frowned  delicately,  and  smoothed  her  dress, 
and  said  nothing. 

"Springer  kept  talking  to  me  about  it,  and  complain- 
ing that  his  wife  was  against  him  too.  He  said  she  wanted 
to  be  the  boss  always.  And  I  told  him  that  was  the  way 
with  a  thin  woman,  generally,  and  that  he  ought  to 
have  a  wife  with  a  little  flesh  on  her  bones." 

Rosy  uttered  a  little  cry  of  disapproval.  The  image 
of  poor,  gaunt  Mrs.  Springer  came  before  her,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  Mr.  Feld  shouldn't  have  said  any- 
thing like  that.  But  she  checked  her  impulse  to  rebuke 
him,  and  he  continued:  "I  told  him  if  a  woman  didn't 
have  any  flesh  on  her  bones  she  was  not  a  well  woman — 
and  that  it  wasn't  fair  to  judge  women  by  one  that  was 
sick.  A  woman's  got  to  have  flesh — not  always  I  don't 
mean  only  on  hef  face  just.  You  take  a  woman  who's 
not  all  skin  and  bone  and  you  don't  have  to  boss  her — 
and  mostly  she  won't  want  to  boss  you.  It's  enough 
if  once  in  a  while — maybe  when  you're  sitting  on  the 
porch  after  the  sun  has  gone  down  and  before  the  lights 
are  lit — it's  enough  if  you  take  her  hand  maybe  and 


208  ROSY 

say  .  .  .  'Eh?'  And  then  you'll  both  just  sit  there, 
saying  nothing.  Sometimes  she'll  scold  you,  maybe — 
when  you  need  to  be  scolded.  And  then  she'll  let  you 
see  that  her  heart  is  hurt,  on  account  she  had  to  scold 
you;  and  you'll  feel  little  .  .  .  you  know?  So.  And 
it  does  a  man  good  to  feel  little  once  in  a  while.  As  long 
as  he  knows  how  to  feel  little  once  in  a  while  he'll  maybe 
not  altogether  forget  God. 

"But  about  Springer — he  tried  again  to-day.  That's 
what  I  wanted  to  tell  you.  He  loaded  up  his  wagon 
this  morning  with  fine  apples  and  drove  away  down 
the  mountain.  Poor  devil ! " 

"But  will  people  buy  from  him  now?"  asked  Rosy. 

"He  thinks  so.  He's  been  putting  his  wits  to  work. 
He  told  me  about  it  as  he  drove  down  this  morning. 
He's  made  up  a  funny  story  about  the  Kaiser.  He 
thought  about  it  day  and  night,  and  at  last  it  came  to 
him  the  way  he  wanted  it." 

"A  story?"  she  murmured. 

"You  know  those  things  people  tell,  and  you  see  them 
in  the  paper,  and  people  laugh  at  them  on  account  there's 
a  surprise  at  the  end." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Rosy.    "An — an  anecdote." 

"Yes.  And  Springer  has  worked  out  a  anecdote — 
with  the  Kaiser  in  it.  He  told  it  to  me.  And  he's  going 
to  take  his  apples  to  his  old  patrons  and  he  expects  they 
will  buy,  on  account  he  is  going  to  tell  them  the  anec- 
dote. The  anecdote  about  Kaiser  Bill." 

"What  is  the  anecdote,  Mr.  Feld?"  asked  Rosy. 

He  took  fright  instantly.  "Are  Springer's  customers 
ladies,  Rosy?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  I  think  so.    Most  of  them,  anyway." 

His  eyes  became  round  with  wonder.  "I'm  afraid 
Springer  won't  sell  his  apples,  then.  It's  more  likely 
as  he'll  be  put  in  jail.  I  couldn't  tell  you  the  anecdote, 


ROSY  209 

Rosy.  It's  not  what  you'd  call  a— a  ladies'  anecdote. 
I  wouldn't  tell  it  to  no  one."  He  thought  a  moment 
and  then  added:  "You  know  these  American  vommens, 
Rosy  .  .  .  you  can't  always  look  a  thing  in  the  face 
when  you're  talking  to  them.  Sometimes  you've  got 
to  step  around  and  look  at  it  from  one  side  or  the  other. 
It  will  be  the  same  thing,  you  know,  but  it  will  look 
different.  No?" 

Rosy  turned  her  face  away  and  smiled.  Presently 
she  said:  "I  think  I  understand." 

It  seemed  really  a  coincidence  that  they  should  hear 
the  rumble  of  wheels  on  the  road  just  then  and  that 
William  Springer  should  appear  almost  immediately. 

His  head  was  hung  dejectedly,  and  Feld's  face  grew 
sad  with  pity  and  concern.  "He  went  away  with  his 
chest  sticking  out,  shouting  to  his  horses,"  he  said  mus- 
ingly. "He's  had  bad  luck." 

But  Springer's  wagon  was  empty. 

Feld,  rising  and  moving  slowly  up  the  path,  asked 
cheerfully:  "Well,  Springer?" 

Springer  turned  and  looked  indifferently  at  the  empty 
wagon  bed.  "They  wouldn't  let  me  tell  my  story," 
he  said,  checking  his  team.  "The  first  one  said:  'Yes, 
I  want  some  apples,  Springer — if  you'll  just  leave  me 
the  apples  and  say  nothing!'  What  do  you  think  of 
that?  It  was  the  same  way  with  all  of  them.  And  me 
lying  awake  to  think  up  something  to  please  them!" 
He  shook  the  reins  and  drove  on,  miffed  beyond  expres- 
sion. 

Feld  returned  to  the  spring,  smiling  dryly.  "They're 
both  all  right,"  he  remarked. 

"Both?"  asked  Rosy,  puzzled. 

"Springer  has  sold  his  apples,  and  that's  well  enough 
for  him." 

"And  who  else  is  all  right,  Mr.  Feld?" 


sio  ROSY 

The  old  man's  lips  were  puckered  whimsically  and 
he  shook  his  head.  After  a  silence  he  said:  "But  it  was 
a  narrow  escape  for  Kaiser  Bill !" 

.  .  .  They  sat  silent  for  a  time.  Rosy  felt  that  heavy 
burdens  were  slipping  from  her  shoulders  while  she  sat 
at  the  apex  of  that  vast  triangle  cut  into  the  mountain, 
from  which  the  water  descended  in  a  whispering  trickle 
down  into  hidden,  vast  places.  She  realized  that  she 
did  not  like  to  think  of  returning  to  her  house,  and  to 
her  guest  down  in  the  cavern.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
she  was  beginning  to  know  what  married  life  must  be 
like  under  certain  unfavorable  circumstances.  She  had 
learned  that  she  must  seek  for  no  congenial  responses 
from  that  companion  down  in  the  cavern,  and  she  felt 
a  kind  of  truant  gladness  in  her  present  moments  of 
freedom. 

"It's  like  being  a  dissatisfied  wife,"  she  mused.  "I've 
had  the  lesson  without  its  ever  having  been  put  in  the 
book  for  me." 

She  knew  that  she  should  go  back  and  perform  all 
her  duties  presently,  but  it  was  pleasant  to  linger  at 
the  spring  with  Jacob  Feld. 


CHAPTER  XXH 

DURING  her  hour  at  the  spring  with  old  Jacob  she 
spoke  of  many  things,  yet  she  went  away  at  last  without 
touching  upon  the  matter  which  had  been  uppermost 
in  her  mind  all  the  while — which,  little  by  little,  had 
come  to  be  the  one  superlatively  important  thing  of 
her  life. 

-  It  had  occurred  to  her  more  than  once  that  it  would 
be  a  great  pleasure  to  confide  in  him:  not  really  to  ask 
his  advice,  perhaps,  but  rather  to  seek  his  approval  of 
a  course  which  she  felt  sure  she  meant  to  take. 

For  many  days  she  had  been  working  out  a  great 
problem — or  perhaps  it  would  be  nearer  the  truth  to 
say  that  she  had  been  trying  to  accustom  herself  to  a 
new  role  which  had  been  assigned  to  her  by  powers  which 
were  invisible  and  mysterious,  but  which  left  her  no 
choice  of  her  own.  Yet  something  in  the  nature  of  her 
problem,  and  in  her  own  nature  too,  had  made  it  im- 
possible for  her  to  ask  for  sympathy  or  approval.  She 
had  kept  her  own  counsel,  denying  herself  the  ecstasy 
of  frank  revelation,  either  to  the  Powells  or  old  Jacob 
Feld,  who  were  beyond  question  her  most]  sympathetic 
friends. 

But  as  she  returned  from  the  spring,  walking  dreamily 
along  the  bench  road,  she  knew  that  the  time  for  inde- 
cision had  passed  and  that  she  meant  now  to  commit 
herself  to  a  promise  and  to  a  course  from  which  there 
could  never  more  be  any  turning  back. 

When  she  entered  her  door  she  paused  for  one  ecstatic 
sigh.  It  was  good  to  know  clearly  what  she  wanted  to 
do — what  she  ought  to  do !  She  lifted  a  finger  to  her 


212  ROSY 

lower  lip  in  token  of  a  certain  minor  perplexity.  When 
had  she  last  seen  the  writing  materials  her  father  had 
kept  in  the  house,  and  where  ?  She  had  not  thought  of 
them  since  her  father's  death.  She  could  not  think 
what  she  had  done  with  them.  She  frowned.  What 
would  the  Powells  say  if  they  knew  she  had  never  given 
a  thought  to  writing  materials  during  all  those  months  ? 
There  was  a  word  which  applied  to  persons  who  never 
wrote  anything.  She  tried  to  think  of  the  word.  It 
was  .  .  .  illiterates.  Did  it  apply  to  her? 

She  began  a  systematic  search  for  the  writing  ma- 
terials. She  had  begun  to  think  she  must  have  destroyed 
them,  without  knowing  it,  when  at  last  she  came  upon 
them:  the  ink-bottle,  the  pen  and  the  holder,  and  the 
tablet  and  envelopes,  all  wrapped  in  a  piece  of  news- 
paper. They  were  on  top  of  the  cupboard  in  the  kitchen, 
behind  the  ornamental  piece  at  the  front. 

She  got  them  down  and  held  them  in  her  hands  awk- 
wardly, a  little  suspiciously — as  an  angel  might  hold 
deeds  to  land,  or  a  life  insurance  policy.  She  perceived 
that  she  ought  to  be  holding  the  ink-bottle  the  other 
way  up,  and  she  almost  dropped  it  in  righting  it.  She 
tried  to  remember  where  her  father  had  placed  them 
when  he  wanted  to  write.  During  her  school-days  there 
had  been  a  desk,  but  certainly  nobody  ever  thought  of 
keeping  a  desk  in  the  house. 

The  front-room  table  would  do;  and  then  she  re- 
membered, as  she  moved  toward  the  table,  that  it  was 
here  her  father  had  done  his  writing,  when  there  had 
been  any  to  do.  She  recalled  him  as  he  used  to  remove 
the  things  from  the  table  and  pile  them  almost  anywhere 
for  the  time  being. 

Little  beads  of  perspiration  had  broken  out  on  her  fore- 
head by  the  time  she  had  taken  her  place  at  the  table, 
to  compose  herself  for  her  task.  There  was  a  light  in 


ROSY  213 

her  eyes,  dubious  yet  dancing,  like  that  in  the  eyes  of 
one  who  undertakes  a  dangerous  yet  enticing  enter- 
prise. 

She  sat  at  the  table  nearly  an  hour,  pondering  and 
doubting — and  finally  writing.  Some  of  the  sentences 
she  wrote  were  extraordinarily  plain  and  candid.  "You 
guessed  wrong,"  was  one  of  them.  "He  was  not  my 
sweetheart.  Anyway,  he  isn't  now.  You  are  my  sweet- 
heart." 

So  much  of  authorship  was  not  achieved  easily,  of 
course.  Certainly,  she  tapped  her  lips  with  the  end 
of  the  pen-holder;  and  realizing  that  she  had  done  this 
once,  she  delighted  in  the  thought  that  the  action  must 
have  given  her  an  appearance  entirely  unlike  an  illiterate 
person.  She  continued  to  tap  her  lips  with  the  end  of 
the  pen-holder,  with  a  new  sense  of  luxury  and  elegance. 
And  finally,  inclining  her  head  for  the  nicest  part  of  her 
performance,  she  laboriously  traced  the  words:  "I  love 
you."  She  put  aside  her  pen  and  held  the  paper  at  a 
distance,  to  get  the  full  effect  of  those  words.  They 
struck  her  as  being  singularly  good.  She  put  the  paper 
down  and  clasped  her  hands  against  her  heart  and  shook 
herself  with  a  kind  of  hugging  effect.  And  then  she 
took  her  pen  in  hand  again  and  repeated  the  words,  "I 
love  you." 

She  was  aware  then  that  an  extraordinary  sensation 
had  overwhelmed  her.  Her  whole  being  was  charged 
with  a  powerful  emotion.  She  laid  the  pen  down  and 
regarded  it  dreamily,  her  chin  propped  up  in  her  hands. 
It  had  been  her  father's  pen,  and  he  was  not  here  now. 
She  thought:  "How  I  should  like  to  hug  him  and  tell 
him  I  love  some  one !  Imagine  it !  He  would  first  pat 
me  on  the  back  and  then  he  would  hold  me  a  little  away 
from  him,  and  say  'Eh?  So?'  And  then  he  would 
laugh  and  draw  me  to  him,  and  then  he  would  call  mother 


214  ROSY 

and  say:  'What  do  you  think,  mother? — this  infant 
here  .  .  .  have  you  got  any  bread  and  milk  ready?'  " 
And  then  she  flung  herself  forward  on  the  table  and 
cried  as  she  had  not  done  since  her  parents  died — per- 
haps not  even  then.  To  have  great  good  news,  and  to 
know  that  they  who  would  most  rejoice  in  it  were  never 
to  know ! 

She  imagined  herself  a  being  newly  created,  essen- 
tially changed,  when  she  arose  from  the  table  and  wiped 
her  eyes.  She  took  the  several  sheets  of  paper  upon 
which  she  had  made  unsuitable  beginnings  to  her  letter 
and  carried  them  into  the  kitchen,  where  she  put  them 
into  the  stove. 

There  were  other  important  matters  to  be  attended 
to.  She  must  decide  what  division  of  the  furniture  she 
meant  to  make.  The  cavern  must  be  made  not  only 
comfortable,  but  to  a  certain  extent  attractive;  and 
yet  she  must  not  deplete  the  supply  in  her  own  room  to 
such  an  extent  that  visitors  would  say:  "What  have 
you  done  with  all  your  furniture,  Rosy?"  It  would  be 
quite  a  task,  deciding  how  the  furniture  was  to  be  appor- 
tioned. 

She  could  manage  without  the  small  table  in  the  front 
room,  and  one  of  the  lamps.  The  kitchen  lamp,  it  had 
better  be.  No  one  would  note  its  absence.  His  bed 
must  be  brought  down  from  the  attic.  She  had  con- 
sidered whether  he  might  not  return  to  the  house  to 
sleep  after  it  seemed  probable  that  Sheriff  Hammond 
did  not  mean  to  make  any  further  search;  but  now  it 
seemed  to  her  that  it  would  not  do  at  all  for  him  to  leave 
the  cavern  at  night.  The  risk  would  be  too  great.  Be- 
sides, since  she  had  written  that  letter  .  .  .  well,  it  would 
be  best  for  every  reason  for  him  to  have  the  cavern  fitted 
up  so  that  he  could  remain  in  it  comfortably. 

There  were  two  chairs  which  could  be  spared:    one 


ROSY  215 

from  the  front  room  and  another  he  had  been  using  in, 
the  attic.  He  ought  to  have  two,  so  that  he  could  change 
from  one  to  the  other  if  he  got  tired  of  sitting  in  one  too 
long,  and  also  so  that  she  might  visit  him  and  sit  down 
as  if  she  were  at  home.  She  must  try  to  spend  a  good 
deal  of  time  with  him;  and  she  must  learn  how  to  be 
friendly  enough  to  keep  him  friendly,  and  yet  not  friendly 
enough  to  make  him  bold,  or  to  create  wrong  beliefs  in 
his  mind.  It  would  be  necessary  for  her  to  study  this 
problem  pretty  thoroughly. 

She  would  take  the  writing  materials  to  him  too.  She 
seldom  had  need  of  them,  and  it  would  seem  rather 
elegant  for  him  to  have  writing  materials  where  he  could 
use  them.  She  realized  that  he  certainly  would  not 
wish  to  write  any  letters,  since  he  could  not  safely  com- 
municate with  his  friends.  But  there  might  be  other 
things  he  could  think  of  to  write.  It  even  occurred  to 
her  that  he  might  like  to  write  a  book.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  he  might  be  the  very  sort  of  person  who  would 
wish  to  write  a  book :  a  fault-finding  fellow  who  had 
his  mind,  nearly  all  the  time,  upon  matters  which  were 
of  small  consequence  to  other  people.  She  would  take 
some  of  her  father's  books  to  him,  so  that  he  might  have 
models,  or  so  that  he  could  get  ideas.  She  had  an  idea 
that  books  must  be  something  like  yeast — that  one 
was  needed  for  a  start,  and  that  the  others  came  from 
it  in  some  manner  or  other.  For  herself,  she  was  really 
prejudiced  against  books.  Could  she  not  remember 
how  her  father  used  to  sit  before  the  fireplace  of  a  winter 
night,  reading;  and  how  at  length  he  would  close  the 
book  and  stare  into  the  fire  so  solemnly  that  no  one 
ventured  to  speak  ?  She  could  recall  the  silence  of  those 
moments:  the  clock  ticking,  and  the  wind  blowing  over 
the  mountain,  and  the  fire  purring  on  the  hearth.  .  .  . 

She  must  take  his  razor  to  him,  certainly;    and  she 


2i6  ROSY 

could  easily  spare  the  little  looking-glass  in  the  kitchen. 

She  lost  herself  in  idle  speculation  as  to  how  she  might 
make  the  cavern  seem  less  forbidding  and  unbounded. 
She  had  hoped  to  think  of  something  in  the  way  of 
draperies  for  the  walls;  but  this  plan  now  seemed  im- 
practicable. In  truth,  his  evident  determination  not 
to  be  happy  as  long  as  he  had  to  remain  in  this  hidden 
place  had  discouraged  her  so  that  she  decided  not  to 
undertake  to  carry  out  many  of  the  plans  she  had  had 
in  mind. 

She  had  scarcely  made  up  her  mind  touching  the 
things  she  might  spare  for  the  cavern  when  the  dusk 
fell,  and  she  remembered  almost  with  a  feeling  of  guilt 
that  it  had  been  hours  since  she  had  gone  to  him.  He 
would  be  more  disagreeable  than  ever.  That  was  the 
most  difficult  thing  in  their  relationship,  she  realized. 
Each  little  unpleasantness  that  came  up  between  them 
grew  in  proportions  until  it  became  a  big  thing,  sepa- 
rating them  still  further,  instead  of  shrinking  to  nothing 
and  permitting  them  to  be  closer  together  than  before. 
She  realized  that  it  was  becoming  quite  a  disagreeable 
task  to  go  to  him,  if  she  had  stayed  away  half  an  hour 
longer  than  he  thought  she  meant  to  stay. 

With  an  unwonted  air  of  energy  she  took  her  letter 
to  Jacob  Feld  and  asked  him  to  mail  it  for  her  when 
he  went  to  Pisgah.  She  held  it  so  that  he  could  see 
the  name  on  the  envelope — Nat  Minturn.  But  she 
did  not  say,  "I  have  a  letter  for  Nat  Minturn,"  and 
Jacob  Feld  did  not  look  at  the  name  she  had  written. 

Then  she  returned  to  her  house  and  took  the  clothes- 
line from  its  place  behind  the  kitchen-door  and  went 
out  through  the  yard,  toward  the  bottomless  chasm 
where  the  little  pine-trees  stood.  She  thought  it  a  just 
punishment  that  Nat  might  no  longer  sit  here  in  the 
open,  he  who  had  taken  no  pleasure  in  the  lovely  spot 


ROSY  217 

when  he  had  had  the  chance  to  sit  there.  She  made 
several  turns  with  the  clothes-line  around  one  of  the 
trees.  Then  she  let  the  line  lie  while  she  went  back  into 
the  house. 

Presently  she  returned,  flushed  with  exertion,  carry- 
ing the  sitting-room  table.  She  tied  one  end  of  the  line 
to  a  leg  of  the  table.  Holding  the  other  end  in  her  hand 
she  drew  in  the  slack  until  there  was  barely  length  enough 
for  the  table  to  be  pushed  over  the  verge  of  the  bluffs. 
Then  she  stepped  back  and  lengthened  the  line,  play- 
ing it  out  slowly,  so  that  the  table  sank  from  sight.  She 
heard  it  bumping  against  the  face  of  the  rock  wall.  She 
asked  herself  after  a  time:  "Have  I  let  it  down  far 
enough?"  She  could  not  be  sure;  but  when  she  reck- 
oned that  the  table  had  reached  a  point  opposite  the 
opening  in  the  cavern  she  tied  the  end  of  the  line  to  a 
different  pine-tree;  and  then  she  hurried  eagerly  in 
the  direction  of  the  well. 

No  one  was  visible  along  the  bench  road.  Even  the 
trees  and  rocks  were  being  swallowed  up  in  the  gloom 
of  night.  Sphinx  Rock,  immense  and  sinister,  was  a 
mere  blur.  She  climbed,  with  pounding  pulses,  down 
into  the  well. 

He  had  heard  her  coming,  obviously.  He  was  coming 
toward  her  in  great  agitation  when  she  appeared  in  the 
cavern.  And  then  she  caught  her  breath  because  she 
could  make  out  that  he  was  almost  beside  himself  with 
anger.  He  cried  out  hoarsely 

"What  in  the  world  does  this  mean,  Rosy?  Do  you 
suppose  I  haven't  any  nerves  at  all?  To  have  that 
thing  come  scuttling  down  the  face  of  the  rocks  for  all 
the  world  like  a  man  kicking  out  with  his  feet  .  .  .  what 
did  you  suppose  I'd  think,  sitting  here  alone?" 

She  stood  regarding  the  obscure,  inimical  figure  be- 
fore her.  She  was  offended  anew  because  he  would  not 


218  ROSY 

enter  into  the  spirit  of  their  necessities,  of  anything 
she  did.  She  cautioned  herself  not  to  respond  to  him 
disagreeably.  "I  didn't  think  you'd  be  frightened/* 
she  said. 

"I  don't  believe  you  thought  at  all." 

"Yes,  I  did.  Maybe  I  should  have  told  you  before- 
hand." She  seemed  to  put  him  out  of  her  mind.  She 
went  cautiously  toward  the  immense  mouth  of  the 
cavern.  The  horizontal  line  of  rope  bisected  it.  The 
table  hung  on  a  level  with  her  feet.  "Why  didn't  you 
pull  it  in  and  untie  it,  when  you  found  out  what  it  was  ?  " 
she  asked.  Still,  she  did  not  turn  toward  him.  She 
reached  forward  cautiously  and  caught  the  table  and 
tugged  at  it  until  two  of  its  legs  were  inside  the  cavern. 
She  began  untying  the  line  that  held  it. 

"Rosy!"  he  remonstrated,  "that's  not  a  thing  for 
a  girl  to  do ! " 

It  seemed  to  her  that  there  was  a  note  of  terror  in 
his  voice.  But  the  words  offended  her.  "I've  had  to 
do  lots  of  things  most  girls  don't  do,"  she  said,  "but 
I've  never  been  told  that  it  hurt  me  any."  She  began 
to  enumerate  the  things  she  had  had  to  do:  "I've  had 
to  chop  wood,  and  do  the  feeding,  even  in  winter,  and 
carry  things  up  the  mountain — eggs  and  chickens." 
Forgetting  herself  for  the  moment  she  added:  "If  this 
is  not  the  sort  of  thing  for  a  girl  to  do,  you  might  offer 
to  do  it  yourself." 

His  voice  arose  slightly.  "It  needn't  be  done,"  he 
declared.  Then  realizing  that  he  had  spoken  angrily 
he  added  in  a  changed  tone:  "You  see  what  it's  doing 
to  me — sitting  and  moping  in  this  ungodly  place ! " 

She  dragged  the  table  entirely  within  the  cavern, 
letting  the  end  of  the  line  swing  free.  "Yes,  you're 
getting  nervous,"  she  decided;  and  she  was  reminding 
herself  that  she  must  not  upbraid  him  for  conditions 


ROSY  2ig 

which  were  perhaps  natural  enough,  and  which  he 
couldn't  conquer.  She  placed  the  lamp  on  the  table 
and  lighted  it.  "Now,  isn't  that  an  improvement  ? " 
she  asked.  Their  eyes  met:  hers  beamingly  hopeful, 
his  still  smouldering  with  anger.  She  decided  not  to 
pay  too  much  attention  to  him.  "I  must  go  and  let 
the  other  things  down,"  she  said.  She  called  back  over 
her  shoulder:  "I  don't  mind  doing  it.  I'll  have  things 
looking  quite  inviting  before  long." 

She  had  asked  herself  how  she  was  ever  to  get  those 
articles  of  furniture  back  to  their  proper  places  again. 
Perhaps  she  never  should  be  able  to  do  so.  But  he  needed 
them,  and  she  must  not  mind  their  loss,  if  it  should  prove 
that  she  could  never  have  them  again.  In  any  case, 
it  would  be  pleasant  to  think  that  the  cavern  was 
furnished.  Perhaps  the  time  would  come  when  she 
should  be  able  to  come  here  with  others — with  friends 
who  would  realize  how  delightful  it  was  to  have  a  secret 
place  which  made  you  think  of  demons,  or  of  Eden — 
but  which  had  chairs  and  a  table  in  it. 

An  irresistible  impulse  seized  her  just  before  she  dis- 
appeared. She  stood  regarding  Minturn,  and  smiling, 
she  sang  just  one  line  of  a  comic  song  she  had  heard 
somewhere: 

"Uovin'  day,  movin'  day  .  .  ." 
And  then  she  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

IT  was  during  the  last  week  in  August  that  Pisgah 
and  the  surrounding  country  were  stirred  in  an  almost 
unprecedented  way  by  the  tragedy  of  the  Minturn  plan- 
tation. 

There  was  at  first  the  unimpressive  report  that  the 
Minturn  girls,  Fanny  and  Evelyn,  were  ill.  It  was  known 
that  old  Doctor  Busbee  had  been  summoned  to  attend 
them.  The  doctor  was  listening  to  the  newest  symptoms 
of  Mrs.  Plant — as  he  did  regularly  on  Monday  and  Fri- 
day afternoons — when  the  summons  came;  and  it  was 
sundown  on  Monday  when  he  reached  the  Minturn 
home. 

He  found  the  two  girls  in  bed:  a  little  paler  and  wider- 
eyed  than  usual,  but  by  no  means  alarmingly  ill,  he 
thought.  He  had  an  assortment  of  phrases  which  he 
always  found  convenient  in  certain  emergencies;  and 
he  knew  instantly  which  of  these  phrases  would  best 
apply  to  the  present  situation.  They  were  gruffly  play- 
ful, and  even  humorous.  They  were  in  the  form  of  in- 
quiries, though  the  doctor  scarcely  felt  the  need  of  ac- 
quiring information.  He  was  not  a  very  strong  believer 
in  information.  His  belief  was  limited  to  a  certain 
formula  touching  the  all-sufficient  potency  of  quinine 
and  calomel. 

Moreover,  he  had  an  abiding  scepticism  touching 
ladies  who  were  taken  to  their  beds  by  illness.  Long 
ago  he  had  firmly  intrenched  himself  behind  a  fatuous 
and  ancient  rigmarole,  as  thus:  Women  were  fond  of 


ROSY  221 

sending  for  the  doctor  when  they  were  bored  by  all  other 
kinds  of  visitors.  They  imagined  they  were  singularly 
interesting  when  they  could  have  the  doctor  beside 
them  and  talk  tediously  of  their  symptoms.  They  were 
foolish  creatures  who  exaggerated  everything. 

The  element  of  truth  which  might  have  been  found 
in  this  rule  was  of  no  value  to  him  at  all,  because  he 
did  not  realize  that  the  rule  might  have  been  applied 
quite  as  fairly  to  men  as  to  women. 

He  looked  at  Fanny  and  Evelyn,  and  questioned 
them,  and  then  grumbled  humorously:  "Ah — ha!  A 
little  touch  of  summer  complaint !"  And  he  prescribed 
for  them,  and  talked  to  them  longer  than  he  should 
have  done,  and  then  spent  ten  minutes  with  Mrs.  Min- 
turn  in  discussing  certain  social  movements  in  Pisgah. 
He  lightly  put  aside  her  efforts  to  make  known  to  him 
certain  alarming  symptoms  she  had  remarked  in  her 
daughters.  "Yes,  of  course:  that  was  to  have  been 
expected,"  he  said — speaking  in  so  complacent  a  tone 
that  the  mother  became  greatly  distressed.  She  per- 
sisted. 

"But  I'm  afraid  it's  something  serious,  Doctor  Bus- 
bee,"  she  said.  "Their  both  having  been  taken  ill  at 
the  same  time,  and  in  the  same  way.  ...  It  was  Satur- 
day night,  or  Sunday  morning,  rather,  when  they  called 
me.  At  one  o'clock  in  the  morning.  They  were  in  an 
alarming  state.  Their  bodies  were  very  cold,  and  they 
were  perspiring  freely.  They  were  trembling  as  if  they 
had  a  chill  of  some  kind.  They  begged  me  to  close  the 
windows  and  bring  more  cover  for  them — though  it 
was  really  very  warm.  I  can't  tell  you  how  cold  they 
were — their  heads,  their  abdomens,  their  hands.  And 
then  they  became  feverish — all  of  a  sudden,  it  seemed. 
Their  bodies  became  hot.  They  have  lost  strength  in 
a  dreadful  way." 


222  ROSY 

She  seemed  to  wish  to  say  more.  Her  eyes  were  dark 
with  misery. 

The  doctor  brought  forth  the  sentences  which  never 
failed  to  soothe. 

"Exactly!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  understand  perfectly. 
Well  .  .  .  once  every  two  hours,  remember.  And  you'd 
better  keep  them  in  bed  for  a  day  or  two." 

By  Wednesday  it  was  known  throughout  Pisgah  that 
the  Minturn  girls  were  alarmingly  ill;  and  the  town 
consoled  itself  by  taking  up  an  ancient  topic  of  con- 
troversy: namely,  the  relative  merits  of  old  Doctor 
Busbee,  who  had  practised  medicine  in  Pisgah  and  the 
surrounding  country  for  forty  years,  and  Doctor  Hol- 
loway,  who  had  graduated  from  a  medical  school  some 
ten  years  ago,  and  had  come  to  Pisgah  to  build  up  a 
practice.  The  younger  physician  had  incurred  a  good 
deal  of  scepticism  by  certain  advanced  theories  he  held, 
and  which  he  would  expound  briefly  and  crisply  when 
called  upon  to  do  so.  A  part  of  Pisgah  dismissed  him 
as  a  new-fangled  person.  He  was  "afraid  of  a  little 
dirt."  He  was  too  fond  of  upsetting  old  ways  of  doing 
things.  Moreover,  he  charged  a  larger  fee  than  Doctor 
Busbee. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  noted  as  time  passed  that  young 
Holloway  certainly  succeeded  in  curing  his  patients  in 
a  remarkable  number  of  cases,  and  often  in  a  very  short 
time.  And  thus  there  were  not  a  few  who  expressed 
the  belief  that  if  the  Minturns  would  only  call  in  Doctor 
Holloway,  something  might  yet  be  done  for  Fanny  and 
Evelyn,  who  were  now  said  to  be  almost  at  the  point 
of  death. 

On  Thursday  a  ripple  of  excitement  -went  through  the 
town  when  it  was  known  that  Mr.  Minturn  had  driven 
hastily  into  Pisgah  and  had  gone  straight  to  Doctor 


ROSY  223 

Holloway's  office.  Holloway  chanced  to  be  in;  and 
five  minutes  later  he  was  being  driven  out  the  valley 
road  in  Minturn's  carriage. 

The  young  physician  readily  brought  out  certain 
facts  which  everybody  else  had  overlooked  up  to  the 
moment  of  his  arrival.  The  girls  had  engaged  in  a  game 
of  tennis  on  Saturday  afternoon,  and  had  played  long 
and  violently.  They  had  interrupted  their  play  every 
ten  minutes  or  so  to  go  to  the  well  near  by  and  draw 
a  fresh  bucket  of  water,  from  which  they  drank  without 
stint.  And  it  was  that  night — or  very  early  the  next 
morning — that  they  had  been  taken  ill. 

There  was  a  decidedly  significant  expression  in  the 
young  physician's  eyes  when  he  made  an  examination 
of  his  patients  and  listened  to  this  recital.  He  asked  to 
see  the  well  from  which  the  girls  had  drunk;  and  he 
briefly  informed  Mr.  Minturn  that  it  was  here  that  the 
girls  had  made  themselves  ill.  He  held  to  this  even 
when  Minturn  protested  angrily  and  declared  that  his 
well  was  famed  for  miles  around  for  its  excellence. 

The  doctor  frowned  slightly.  "I  know  those  tradi- 
tions," he  said.  "But  you  see  ...  there's  no  way  of 
really  safeguarding  well  water.  Analyzed,  it  is  nearly 
always  found  to  contain  impurities." 

Minturn  took  him  up  vigorously:  "But  we've  been 
using  it  for  years.  If  it  would  poison  one,  why  not  an- 
other? Eh?"  He  asked  this  triumphantly. 

The  response  was  in  an  unruffled  tone.  "There  are 
always  many  conditions  to  be  considered.  Sometimes 
the  body  will  withstand  a  certain  amount  of  poison. 
The  same  amount,  at  other  times — say  when  your  energy 
is  depleted — will  get  its  work  in.  It's  very  simple.  But 
there  .  .  .  it's  our  business  now  to  repair  the  harm  that's 
been  done — not  to  talk  about  it." 

For  two  days  and  nights  he  gave  his  time  unspar- 


224  ROSY 

ingly  to  his  patients.  However,  at  noon  on  Saturday 
the  news  reached  Pisgah:  Fanny  Minturn  was  dead. 
Her  case  had  been  hopeless,  it  seemed,  from  the  time 
Doctor  Holloway  had  been  called. 

Little  groups  of  people  assembled  everywhere  to  dis- 
cuss the  news:  on  the  business  streets,  at  corners,  out- 
side gates,  on  porches,  under  spreading  trees.  It  had 
been  sudden — that  was  what  made  it  seem  terrible, 
perhaps.  She  had  been  seen  on  such-and-such  a  day, 
looking  better  than  usual :  and  now  she  was  dead.  There 
were  those  who  found  her  death  a  singularly  pathetic 
thing  because  of  certain  traits  she  had  possessed:  her 
habit  of  keeping  aloof  from  others.  It  was  felt  that 
no  one  had  ever  really  known  her — and  now  they  never 
could  know  her.  And  then  the  possibilities  that  life 
had  held  for  her — her  father  being  such  a  rich  man  .  .  . 
the  sad  event  was  spun  out  and  examined  pensively 
and  gone  over  again  and  again,  by  the  whispering  groups 
of  persons  outside  gates  and  under  the  trees. 

Scarcely  an  hour  later  the  receding  tide  of  emotion 
was  made  to  rise  again  by  the  rumor — which  speedily 
developed  into  a  fact — that  Evelyn  Minturn  too  was 
dead.  She  had  lived  only  an  hour  longer  than  her  sister. 

In  rural  communities  where  information  is  conveyed 
from  point  to  point  largely  by  personal  agencies,  it  is 
amazing  how  news  of  a  death  will  travel.  If  you  had 
lived  in  Pisgah  you  might  have  calculated  almost  pre- 
cisely when  tidings  of  the  Minturn  tragedy  would  reach 
Moab — when  it  would  arrive  at  the  valleys  beyond 
Moab,  and  when  it  would  be  recorded  in  the  distant 
mountains.  Such  a  calculation  might  have  been  made 
almost  as  certainly  as  those  celestial  intelligences  reach 
us  of  eclipses  and  the  crossing  of  earth's  orbit  by  strange 
bodies. 

A  traveller,  climbing  a  mountain  trail,  will  leave  the 
news  at  a  lonely  hut.  Hunters  passing  that  way  will 


ROSY  225 

take  it  up  and  scatter  it  in  various  directions.  A  boy, 
searching  for  a  horse  that  has  gone  astray,  will  be  told 
what  has  happened,  and  he  repeats  it  at  this  door  and 
that  on  his  way  home.  By  nightfall  a  thousand  kitchen 
lamps  will  shine  on  still  faces  which  are  not  as  they  were 
yesterday,  because  the  thought  of  death  is  present,  and 
individuals  in  a  thousand  home  circles  will  be  breaking 
the  silences  to  say — "I  remember  once,  when  she  was 
a  very  little  girl  .  .  ."  or  "He'll  marry  again,  you  may 
be  sure,  but  he'll  never  find  another  woman  like  her 
who  will  have  him," 

It  was  still  early  in  the  afternoon  when  Rosy  Wood- 
ridge,  standing  at  her  front  gate,  was  stirred  by  vague 
alarm  when  she  saw  Jacob  Feld  approaching.  She  went 
out  into  the  road  to  meet  him,  and  he  began  immediately: 
"Have  you  heard,  Rosy?"  And  he  knew  by  her  eyes 
that  she  had  not  heard.  "The  Minturn  girls,"  he  went 
on;  "they  are  both  dead !" 

Her  lips  parted  and  she  gazed  at  him  incredulously. 
"What!"  she  whispered. 

He  nodded  his  head. 

He  was  much  surprised  by  what  followed.  She  stood 
looking  at  him  as  if  she  scarcely  understood.  She  seemed 
frightened  rather  than  grieved.  And  suddenly  she 
clasped  her  hands  and  thrust  them  out  so  that  they 
rested  on  his  shoulder,  and  then  she  rested  her  face  on 
her  arms  and  began  to  sob. 

"Rosy !"  he  cried,  "Rosy ! — I  didn't  know  you  cared 
for  them  so ! " 

She  said — "It  isn't  that  I  cared  for  them.  I  think 
it's  because  nobody  ever  cared  for  them.  And  oh,  Mr. 
Feld — I'm  thinking  of  their  brother ! " 

She  did  not  remain  to  ask  him  any  save  the  simplest 
questions.  She  turned  unsteadily,  blindly,  and  went 
back  into  her  house. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

AUGUST  gave  place  to  September  and  on  the  moun- 
tain nature's  pageant  moved  onward  silently,  gloriously, 
mystically.  The  chincapins  had  ripened  and  fallen  and 
gone;  the  wild  grapes  emerged  from  their  hiding-places 
as  the  leaves  shrivelled  and  fell.  Persimmons  were  ripen- 
ing. Occasionally  wild  geese  floated  across  the  sky. 
In  the  burnished,  hidden  copses  on  the  slopes  squirrels 
played,  and  now  and  again  the  keenest-eyed  of  all  might 
catch  a  glimpse  of  a  wild  turkey  warily  feeding  and  ad- 
vancing and  lifting  its  head  to  listen  if  a  twig  snapped 
a  hundred  yards  away. 

To  the  alien  folk  from  the  cities  of  the  Texas  plains 
there  was  as  yet  no  voice  in  nature  to  proclaim  that  a 
season  had  ended.  The  sun  still  shone  with  but  slightly 
diminished  splendor  and  its  heat  lingered  in  air  and  earth. 
The  winds  were  still  from  the  south.  The  trees  were 
clad  in  all  their  fulness. 

But  the  mountain-folk  were  not  unaware  that  the 
cycle  of  the  year  had  turned.  Weather-wise,  they 
marked  the  shortening  of  the  days;  nature-wise,  they 
heard  voices,  beheld  portents,  pictures.  The  habits  of 
the  wild  creatures  of  the  mountain  changed.  They 
seemed  to  listen,  to  reflect,  to  dream.  Their  ecstasy 
was  gone.  They  were  old. 

Even  the  trees  had  found  a  new  song:  a  soft  dirge 
foretelling  loss  and  desolation.  In  the  stillness  they 
shivered,  as  if  with  a  prophetic  vision  of  all  that  was 
to  come.  Even  in  the  realm  of  nature  the  period  of 
love-making  had  passed,  and  the  time  had  come  for 

226 


ROSY  227 

reckonings,  for  appraisings,  for  the  striking  of  final 
balances.  (The  world  was  through  with  paeans; )  it  had 
come  upon  the  time  of  brooding. 

But  if  the  visitors  from  far  away  had  not  felt  those 
mystic  changes  which  occur  in  earth  and  sky  in  Sep- 
tember, they  had  nevertheless  learned  from  other  sources 
—the  letters  from  home,  and  the  calendar — that  the 
days  of  blissful  drifting  were  drawing  to  a  close.  They 
were  leaving  the  mountain  one  by  one  or  in  groups,  and 
everywhere  gay  farewells  were  being  spoken.  The  Pis- 
gah  hack  bore  its  burden  of  passengers  down  the  moun- 
tain twice  daily  and  came  back  empty.  The  summer 
cottages  were  being  closed;  the  Summit  Hotel  was  be- 
coming a  place  of  echoes  and  empty  halls  and  verandas 
and  tables.  The  few  guests  who  stayed  on,  remembering 
how  the  heat  lingered  in  their  home  valleys  and  cities, 
moved  about  almost  disconsolately,  trying  in  vain  to 
pretend  that  they  were  still  quite  gay  and  contented. 
They  had  only  a  little  while  longer  to  remain,  in  any 
case,  since  the  hotel  would  close  its  doors  when  the  end 
of  September  came. 

The  Powells  were  among  those  who  remained.  Be- 
tween themselves  they  tried  to  create  the  impression 
that  they  were  remaining  because  it  was  still  very 
pleasant  on  the  mountain.  But  each  rightly  suspected 
that  the  other  entertained  secret  thoughts  and  motives. 
They  were  acting  at  cross-purposes.  The  judge  was  un- 
willing to  subject  his  wife  to  the  hardship  of  hot  days 
and  nights  at  home,  after  the  comforts  of  the  mountain — 
though  he  was  becoming  impatient  to  be  at  home.  And 
Mrs.  Powell  studiously  hid  the  fact  that  she  was  eager 
to  go,  and  cast  many  a  furtive,  anxious  glance  at  the 
judge,  for  whom  she  was  eager  to  secure  as  many  days 
of  complete  rest  as  possible.  She  could  not  blind  her- 
self to  the  fact  that  he  was  aging  steadily,  and  she  knew 


228  ROSY 

too  well  that  he  would  find  exacting  work  to  do  if  he 
went  back  to  the  familiar  environment  again. 

And  as  yet  their  summer's  task  was  undone.  The 
future  of  Rosy  Woodridge  was  still  as  unsettled  and 
obscure  as  it  had  been — to  their  own  way  of  thinking, 
at  least — on  the  day  of  their  arrival  on  the  moun- 
tain 

Perhaps  each  had  begun  to  feel  that  powers  higher 
than  any  at  their  command  had  already  ordained  that 
Rosy  was  to  work  out  her  own  destiny  in  her  own  way. 
Amiable  and  generous  as  she  was,  there  was  yet  a  strange 
reticence  about  her  which  neither  of  them  could  fathom. 
C-hildlike  as  she  often  appeared,  she  seemed  to  possess 
a  hidden,  mature  personality,  and  a  need  of  deciding 
grave  questions  for  herself,  setting  at  naught  the  plans 
of  others  who  would  have  influenced  her. 

As  yet  they  had  not  gone  forward  to  seize  her,  even 
in  a  figurative  sense.  It  had  been  their  plan  to  make 
plain  and  attractive  the  path  from  her  to  themselves, 
to  show  her  such  comfortable  kindnesses  as  must  impel 
her  to  draw  nearer  to  them.  They  hoped  to  make  her 
love  them  so  that  her  heart  would  be  given  to  them, 
perhaps  unawares.  And  at  last — such  was  their  thought 
—they  would  need  only  to  get  her  into  their  house  and 
close  the  door  on  her  and  say — "You  are  ours,  Rosy, 
and  you  shall  be  ours  always."  Time  would  bring  about 
what  they  desired. 

But  time  had  not  done  so.  Rosy  had  behaved  very 
much  like  a  bird  that  will  come  close  to  the  cage  that 
has  been  set  on  the  window  ledge,  and  inspect  it  ad- 
miringly— but  will  not  quite  enter  it. 

Their  tacit  agreement  that  perhaps  after  all  they 
would  be  unable  to  do  a  great  deal  for  Rosy  at  present 
might  have  been  implied  in  a  remark  of  the  judge's  to 
Mrs.  Powell  on  a  certain  tranquil  afternoon  in  Sep- 


ROSY  229 

tember,  after  one  or  the  other  had  remarked  that  it 
was  strange  Rosy  did  not  come  to  see  them  oftener. 

"There'll  come  a  time,"  said  the  judge,  "when  we'll 
be  able  to  leave  Rosy  pretty  well  off — with  fabulous 
wealth,  according  to  her  standards." 

Perhaps  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  said  in  so  many 
words  that  he  meant  to  provide  for  the  daughter  of  his 
old  friend;  but  Mrs.  Powell  replied  in  quite  a  matter- 
of-fact  tone:  "Yes,  of  course."  And  then,  with  a  light 
suggesting  a  gentle  taunt  in  her  eyes,  she  added:  "Though 
I  can't  help  thinking  you're  inconsistent,  just  the  same." 

"Eh? — inconsistent?"  he  echoed,  a  bit  startled. 

"It  seems  that  you  are  quite  willing  to  change  Rosy's 
status,  after  all." 

He  was  anxious  to  understand  what  she  meant.  "I 
was  thinking  I'd  like  to  know  that  she'll  never  come  to 
want,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  I  know.  But  if  we're  to  make  a  rich 
woman  of  her  some  day,  how  much  better  it  would  be 
if  we  could  prepare  her  a  little  now  for  the  use  of  riches, 
later  on." 

"Oh!"  he  exclaimed,  evidently  relieved.  He  added 
a  moment  later:  "I'm  sure  you're  right  in  wanting  to 
take  Rosy  away  from  here.  I've  never  really  opposed 
it,  you  know.  I  only  allowed  myself  to  be  a  bit  senti- 
mental in  my  own  way.  But  now  that  the  summer's 
ending  something  seems  to  have  gone  from  the  moun- 
tain— or  to  be  going.  I  don't  like  to  think  of  leaving 
Rosy  here.  Maybe  you'll  persuade  her  to  go  with  us 
after  all.  I'm  on  your  side,  without  any  reservation." 

She,  rather  than  he,  seemed  to  see  the  difficulties  now. 
"I'm  going  to  try,"  she  said.  "But  I  don't  know. 
There's  something  about  Rosy — a  kind  of  proud  inde- 
pendence showing  through  all  her  other  qualities — which 
makes  it  rather  awkward  to  say  to  her  in  effect:  'I  want 


230  ROSY 

you  to  give  up  your  home,  because  it  isn't  as  nice  as 
mine,  and  I  want  you  to  come  to  me  and  live  my  life 
instead  of  your  own.'  Still,  I'm  going  to  try." 

Three  days  later  the  judge  went  to  Little  Rock.  A 
letter  he  had  received  was  made  the  basis  of  his  going. 
The  letter  had  to  do  with  a  certain  case  which  was  of 
far-reaching  importance,  he  explained.  But  after  he 
was  gone  Mrs.  Powell  had  directed  her  maid  to  begin 
packing  certain  things.  She  was  sure  the  judge  would 
receive  no  more  benefit  from  his  stay  on  the  mountain. 
His  interests  had  been  transferred  back  to  the  city  and 
so  they  might  as  well  go. 

And  the  judge,  finding  that  the  weather  in  Little 
Rock  was  really  very  agreeable,  decided,  when  he  set 
his  face  toward  Pisgah  and  Moab  again,  that  it  should 
be  for  the  last  time  that  year.  He  would  persuade  Mrs. 
Powell  to  go  home. 

He  drove  up  the  mountain  in  a  private  conveyance: 
he  had  learned  that  the  Moab  hack  would  not  be  going 
up  until  afternoon.  And  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  must 
have  been  away  from  the  mountain  for  a  long  time. 
He  was  seeing  it  with  eyes  newly  focussed:  and  he  noticed 
that  the  bench  cottages  had  been  deserted  in  many  in- 
stances, and  that  in  the  picturesque  little  yards  there 
were  no  dogs  to  bark  as  he  passed,  and  no  horses  in  the 
stable-yards  to  whinney.  Some  of  the  windows  of  the 
houses  had  been  boarded  up.  Already  the  place  seemed 
quite  deserted. 

But  he  came  upon  Rosy  presently.  She  was  sitting 
out  on  the  broken  wall,  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap. 
She  was  regarding  him  with  a  dreamy  smile — as  if  kind- 
ness rather  than  joy  were  the  essence  of  it.  And  he 
touched  the  reins  in  the  driver's  hands  and  brought 
the  horses  to  a  stop.  He  seemed  to  reflect  an  instant, 


ROSY  231 

and  then,  with  a  word  to  the  driver,  he  laboriously 
climbed  out  of  the  carriage. 

Rosy  was  running  toward  him  now — as  if  to  spare 
him  the  effort  of  getting  out  of  the  carriage;  and  he 
found  her  quite  close  to  him  when  he  turned  about. 
He  seemed  to  wish  to  efface  the  impression  that  he  could 
not  get  about  easily.  He  put  out  his  hand  and  smiled. 
"I'm  glad  you  are  waiting  for  me,  Rosy,"  he  said,  "be- 
cause I  was  coming  for  you." 

They  moved  slowly  toward  the  house,  and  Rosy 
thought  how  pleasant  it  would  be  to  bring  chairs  out, 
and  sit  on  the  porch,  just  as  they  had  done  so  many 
times  before.  But  he  divined  her  thought  and  said: 
"No,  I  want  you  to  go  with  me — up  to  the  summit. 
I'm  hoping  to  take  Mrs.  Powell  back  to  Little  Rock  to- 
morrow; and — and  I  think  she  has  something  special 
to  say  to  you.  Something  important.  But  maybe  you've 
seen  her  since  I  went  away?"  He  looked  at  her,  read- 
ing her  eyes. 

"No,  I  haven't,"  she  said.  She  was  thinking:  "How 
can  I  go  with  him?"  She  began  to  think  of  many  dif- 
ficulties, when  in  fact  there  were  none.  "If  I  had  time 
to  dress  ..."  she  said  dubiously. 

He  had  not  ceased  to  smile.  "What's  to  prevent? 
Go  on  and  dress.  If  only  you'll  come  out  looking  as 
nice  as  you  do  going  in!" 

She  became  quite  excited.  It  would  be  delightful 
to  ride  up  to  the  summit  with  the  judge.  "Well,  if  you'll 
sit  on  the  porch  and  wait.  ..."  She  was  already  hurry- 
ing on  ahead.  She  went  into  the  house  and  closed  the 
door.  She  was  smiling  at  him  through  the  crevice  of 
the  door  as  she  closed  it. 

Her  thoughts  were  rather  sombre  as  she  changed  her 
dress.  She  was  thinking  of  her  guest  in  the  cavern, 
and  how  he  had  been  asleep  when  she  had  carried  his 


232  ROSY 

dinner  to  him  only  a  little  while  ago.  He  had  been  sleep- 
ing so  soundly  that  she  had  been  a  little  awed  by  the 
silence.  She  had  made  a  rattling  sound  with  the  dishes, 
so  that  he  would  awaken.  But  he  had  not  done  so.  He 
had  murmured  in  his  sleep — that  was  all.  And  then 
she  resolutely  put  him  out  of  her  mind.  She  must  go 
up  and  tell  Mrs.  Powell  good-by,  certainly.  And  she 
would  think  of  excuses  to  make  when  she  came  back. 

She  was  out  on  the  porch  again  in  an  incredibly  short 
time.  The  judge  opened  his  eyes  wide  when  she  ap- 
peared. "I  wish  mother  could  do  it  like  that,"  he  said. 
"You  certainly  are  a  wonder,  Rosy.  And  you  look  so 
nice,  too!"  He  was  really  delighted. 

He  helped  her  into  the  carriage;  and  she  sat  rather 
stiffly  in  the  back  seat,  realizing  that  she  was  a  sort  of 
grand  lady,  for  all  the  disguises  she  found  it  expedient 
to  wear  every  day.  She  leaned  forward  when  he  climbed 
back  into  the  seat  with  the  driver  to  hear  what  he  had 
to  say.  And  she  laughed  in  a  very  grand  fashion  when 
he  explained:  "I  always  ride  in  the  front  seat  when  I 
come  up  the  mountain.  If  I'm  to  be  dropped  over  a 
ledge  several  thousand  feet  high  I  want  to  know  about 
it  in  plenty  of  time." 

And  then,  out  of  the  amiable  prattle  there  came,  pres- 
ently, the  tremendous  news ! 

They  had  gone  only  a  short  distance  when  the  judge 
turned  partly  round,  resting  his  arm  on  the  back  of  the 
seat.  He  had  something  else  to  say  to  her;  and  she 
leaned  forward  to  hear  him.  The  wheels  on  the  rocky 
road  made  a  good  deal  of  noise.  His  eyes  were  pleasantly 
lighted  with  the  thought  of  what  he  had  to  say  to  her. 

"It  seems  that  you  and  all  your  neighbors — all  the 
people  round  about  here — are  to  be  very  proud,  from 
now  on,"  he  said. 

She  waited  for  him  to  continue;  and  when  the  wheels 


ROSY  233 

had  ground  their  way  over  a  particularly  rocky  spot 
he  continued:  "It's  in  the  Little  Rock  papers.  It  seems 
that  one  of  your  boys — the  name's  Minturn,  I  think: 
yes,  Minturn — has  made  a  hero  of  himself." 

He  faced  to  the  front  for  an  instant,  to  see  if  he  might 
go  on  without  being  interrupted,  and  he  did  not  know 
that  a  sudden  tragic  transformation  had  taken  place 
in  Rosy.  She  almost  shouted — "He  hasn't  been  killed, 
has  he?" 

He  attributed  the  loudness  of  her  voice  to  the  noise 
of  the  wheels.  He  did  not  look  around  immediately. 
"Oh,  no — I  think  not.  Though  you've  all  reason  to 
be  proud  in  any  case.  He's  been  wounded  pretty  badly, 
I  believe.  If  I'm  not  mistaken  he's  lost  an  arm.  I  don't 
recall  the  details  exactly.  But  he's  given  a  fine  sample 
of  American  grit." 

There  was  another  rough  spot  to  be  traversed,  and 
then  he  went  on:  "It  seems  that  he  went  out  with  a 
patrol  party,  pretty  close  to  the  German  lines — in  the 
dark,  you  know.  And  the  Germans  must  have  heard 
them,  for  there  was  firing.  Pretty  fierce  firing,  I  believe. 
And  the  patrol  party  turned  and  ran  toward  their 
trenches.  But  when  they'd  been  back  a  while  it  de- 
veloped that  they'd  left  one  man  behind.  To  make 
matters  worse,  the  day  was  breaking,  and  they  couldn't 
go  back  to  look  for  him.  But  this  chap — this  Minturn — • 
didn't  want  to  let  it  go  at  that.  There  was  a  mist,  or 
a  fog — a  veil  for  a  man  to  move  in.  And  he  started  back 
over  the  way  they  had  come.  He  found  his  man  all 
right — wounded  and  helpless,  but  very  much  alive. 
And  he  picked  him  up  and  started  back  with  him.  I 
gather  that  everything  would  have  been  all  right  but 
for  a  bit  of  bad  luck.  The  mist  seemed  to  be  moving 
in  columns,  as  you  might  say;  and  along  came  a  clear 
space,  and  there  was  the  soldier  with  his  wounded  com- 


234  ROSY 

rade  in  sight  of  the  German  trenches.  They  fired  again. 
Maybe  it  was  something  bigger  than  a  rifle  this  time. 
And  he  was  hit  in  the  shoulder.  He  stumbled  and  fell. 
But  here  comes  the  best  part  of  it  all.  The  fog  hid  him 
again,  and  he  got  up  and  kept  straight  on.  He  didn't 
stop  until  he  got  to  where  he  belonged — and  then  he 
dropped,  unconscious.  But  he'd  brought  his  comrade 
with  him.  They're  both  in  the  hospital  now.  It  seems 
they've  both  got  a  chance  to  pull  through." 

The  road  ascended  sharply  just  there  and  the  horses' 
hoofs  made  a  deafening  noise  among  the  rocks.  And  so 
it  was  that  the  judge  did  not  hear  Rosy's  triumphant 
cry — "Oh,  glory  to  God — he's  a  man,  he's  every  inch 
a  man!"  And  he  did  not  know  that  she  clapped  her 
hands  to  her  face  to  hide  her  tears. 

It  was  not  until  the  long  afternoon  had  passed,  and 
they  had  had  their  dinner  in  the  big  dining-room  at 
sundown  that  the  judge  and  Mrs.  Powell  found  courage 
— or  a  suitable  opportunity — to  speak  to  Rosy  of  their 
dearest  dream. 

Mrs.  Powell  had  never  before  experienced  quite  so 
much  difficulty  in  managing  a  perfectly  artistic  begin- 
ning to  an  undertaking.  Somehow  there  were  no  open- 
ings, try  as  she  might  to  make  them.  And  at  last  she 
found  it  necessary  to  speak  plainly,  almost  bluntly. 

"We've  been  wondering,  Rosy,"  she  said,  "if  you 
wouldn't  like  to  go  back  to  Little  Rock  and — live  with 
us."  She  immediately  concluded  that,  after  all,  she 
couldn't  have  put  it  any  better. 

The  judge  seemed  to  detect  a  lack  of  full  comprehen- 
sion in  Rosy's  face,  for  he  carried  the  matter  a  step 
further.  "To  be  our  daughter,  Rosy  dear — now  that 
you  haven't  any  parents,  any  more  than  we've  daughters 
or  sons  to  comfort  us  in  our  old  age.  To  give  us  back, 


ROSY  235 

perhaps,  some  of  the  love  we've  given  yom  to  many 
years." 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  Rosy  really  failed  them; 
for  the  first  time  she  utterly  failed  herself.  She  looked 
from  one  to  the  other,  wide-eyed,  incredulous. 

"Do  you  mean,"  she  began  slowly,  "do  you 
mean.  ..."  A  kind  of  forlorn  pride  and  joy  bubbled 
up  in  her  laughter  and  rippled  in  her  eyes. 

"You  must  think  about  it,  dear,"  interposed  Mrs. 
Powell.  "You  needn't  feel  hurried,  you  know.  We 
should  want  you  to  feel  you  were  coming  because  it 
would  be  the  happiest  thing  you  could  do." 

But  Rosy  only  hung  her  head  for  a  long,  anxious  mo- 
ment, and  then  her  breath  began  to  come  rapidly,  and 
her  eyes  were  dimmed  with  tears.  She  reached  out  and 
took  Mrs.  Powell's  fine  hand  in  both  her  own  and  drew 
it  to  her  cheek.  "Oh,  you  dear  lady!"  she  cried; 
"but.  .  .  don't  you  see?  I  kain't!" 

She  was  ashamed  of  her  weakness,  then;  and  possibly 
she  feared  she  might  be  tempted  to  yield.  She  turned 
away  from  them,  rubbing  her  eyes.  And  then  without 
another  word  she  went  out  of  the  hotel  and  set  out  rapidly 
across  the  twilit  lawn.  And  so  she  did  not  really  tell 
them  good-by  after  all. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  Feld  girls  learned  the  news  late  in  the  afternoon. 
Some  one  had  brought  a  Little  Rock  paper  up  from  Pis- 
gah,  and  Jacob  Feld,  laboriously  perusing  the  English 
text,  came  upon  the  item  and  read  it  all  the  way  through 
in  a  detached  manner,  before  he  realized  that  it  was 
their  Nat  Minturn  who  had  made  a  hero  of  himself. 
Poor  old  Feld! — he  was  reading  the  newspapers  with 
knotted  brows  during  those  days,  for  there  had  been 
no  word  from  his  son  of  late,  and  he  could  not  quite 
conquer  a  fatalistic  belief  that  Charley  would  never 
come  home  again.  He  would  have  been  grateful  to 
read  that  Charley  had  been  wounded — "Only  just 
crippled,"  was  his  thought,  "so  that  I  could  have  him 
again  and  take  care  of  him." 

When  he  realized  that  the  item  he  had  been  reading 
had  to  do  with  one  of  their  own  boys  he  called  his 
daughters  and  passed  the  paper  over  to  them.  Perhaps 
he  felt  that  such  a  momentous  statement  as  that  in  the 
paper  ought  to  be  verified  by  other  eyes  than  his  own. 

A  moment  later  the  girls  went  racing  around  the 
bench  road  to  tell  Rosy,  and  they  were  greatly  disap- 
pointed to  find  her  away  from  home.  They  encountered 
a  small  group  of  pedestrians  on  their  way  home  and 
they  stopped  to  announce  what  had  happened  to  Nat 
Minturn:  but  they  discovered  to  their  chagrin  that 
the  news  already  seemed  to  be  old  news. 

Indeed,  almost  every  one  in  Pisgah  and  on  the  road 
to  Moab,  and  on  other  roads,  was  stopping  to  say  to 
every  one  else — "Did  you  see  what's  happened  to  Nat 

236 


ROSY  237 

Minturn?"  It  was  the  sole  topic  of  conversation;  and 
even  those  who  had  never  known  Nat,  or  who  had  be- 
lieved that  he  did  not  have  much  of  the  right  sort  of 
stuff  in  him,  were  beaming  with  pleasure  and  speaking 
his  name  almost  affectionately,  as  if  somehow  they  had 
acquired  merit  through  his  behavior. 

There  were  numberless  discussions  of  Nat  from  a 
new  angle.  There  were  those  who  held  to  the  old  belief 
that  Nat  had  never  given  promise  of  turning  out  to  be 
a  famous  young  fellow;  and  of  course  there  were  others 
who  beat  about  the  bush  and  managed  to  say  finally 
that  you  could  never  tell.  Nat  had  always  been  a  mys- 
terious kind  of  boy,  these  held.  He  had  kept  things  to 
himself.  You  could  always  suspect  that  there  were 
certain  things  below  the  surface.  The  way  he  had  of 
casting  his  eyes  aside  and  considering  when  others 
were  speaking  .  .  .  one  might  really  have  known  all 
along  that  he  was  deep. 

His  father  too  assumed  a  new  r61e  in  the  popular  mind. 
It  was  a  discovery  which  almost  everybody  made  for 
himself  that  there  was  a  good  deal  more  to  Rufus  Min- 
turn than  most  of  his  neighbors  had  thought.  If  there 
hadn't  been,  how  could  he  have  maintained  the  respon- 
sible position  he  held  without  doing  a  lot  of  foolish 
things  ?  It  wasn't  easy  to  be  the  richest  man  in  a  com- 
munity and  still  leave  so  little  to  be  said  against  you. 
He  had  been  underrated  because  a  good  many  people 
were  envious  of  him — it  was  plain  enough  now.  And 
it  was  true  the  world  over  that  if  a  man  had  more  money 
or  assets  of  any  kind  than  his  neighbors  there  were  al- 
ways certain  difficulties  in  the  way  of  knowing  him  in- 
timately or  judging  him  impartially.  Minturn  had 
always  been  looked  upon  as  a  sort  of  money-grubber. 
His  wanting  to  run  a  quarry,  when  he  had  plenty  of 
other  work  on  his  hands,  and  when  some  one  else  might 


238  ROSY 

have  made  a  good  thing  of  the  quarry,  had  been  against 
him.  But  now  it  was  plain  that  he  possessed  solid  merits 
which  he  had  never  paraded  in  public. 

People  spoke  of  the  Minturn  girls  too — in  gentler 
tones:  the  poor  girls  who  could  never  know  that  their 
brother  had  distinguished  himself.  And  much  was  for- 
given them  or  explained  away.  They  had  not  been 
really  snobbish  or  consciously  unkind.  They  had  simply 
been  aware  of  the  superior  qualities  they  possessed. 
They  had  had  a  reason  to  hold  their  heads  high. 

And  finally  there  were  those  who  reflected:  "It's  a 
pity  people  haven't  known  Mrs.  Minturn  better.  There 
must  be  a  good  deal  of  the  real  stuff  in  her." 

.  .  .  During  the  afternoon  the  Feld  girls  went  to 
Rosy's  door  twice  and  called,  and  then  went  away  dis- 
consolately. Then  they  had  to  do  the  baking  and  were 
kept  at  home  for  two  or  three  hours — and  then  they 
hurried  along  the  bench  road  in  the  twilight,  Hilda 
taking  the  lead  and  Mary  following  with  a  kind  of 
shepherd-like  sedateness,  as  if  she  must  be  on  the  look- 
out lest  Hilda  exceed  proper  bounds  when  they  got  to 
Rosy's.  She  had  no  idea  what  Hilda  would  say  to  Rosy, 
but  she  feared  it  would  be  something  tactless  or  indis- 
creet. Still,  there  was  no  use  anticipating  Hilda.  The 
best  that  could  be  done  was  to  watch  her  closely  during 
delicate  moments  and  be  ready  to  change  the  subject, 
or  to  say  something  to  cover  an  embarrassing  interval. 
Both  girls  believed  that  Rosy  would  surely  be  at  home 
by  this  time. 

It  was  Hilda  who  knocked  at  Rosy's  door;  and  when 
there  was  still  no  response  they  decided  that  something 
must  be  wrong.  Hilda  opened  the  door  and  leaned  into 
the  room  while  Mary  cried  out,  "Why,  Hilda!"  Still, 
she  followed  Hilda  into  the  house.  Both  the  girls  felt 
that  there  was  a  mystery  of  some  sort  in  Rosy's  life. 


ROSY  239 

Mary  said:  "We  shouldn't  have  come  in,  if  she's  not 
here!"  And  she  looked  about  her  with  sharp  eyes. 

Hilda  retorted:  "If  she  comes  in  and  finds  us  here 
it'll  be  all  right,  and  if  she  doesn't  find  us  she'll  never 
know  we  came  in." 

They  tried  to  create  the  impression  that  they  hoped 
Rosy  would  hear  them  and  come  to  them;  but  they 
examined  everything  in  the  room  before  they  passed 
on  into  the  kitchen.  Then  they  went  out  the  back  way; 
and  as  it  was  quite  plain  that  Rosy  was  not  at  home 
they  looked  at  each  other  inquiringly:  Hilda  with  a 
certain  defiance,  Mary  with  an  equal  degree  of  habitual 
disapproval. 

And  suddenly  their  eyes  filled  with  wonder,  dismay, 
incredulity. 

"Do  you  hear  it?"  asked  Mary  in  a  whisper;  and 
Hilda  replied:  "I  certainly  do.  Do  you?"  Then  they 
both  listened  again. 

The  sound  they  had  heard  was  repeated:  a  faint, 
pleading,  unplaced  cry.  They  could  not  imagine  where 
it  came  from;  yet  they  were  sure  it  was  not  far  away. 
They  advanced  almost  at  random,  Mary  along  the  path 
which  led  to  Rosy's  observatory,  at  the  verge  of  the 
cliffs;  Hilda  in  the  direction  of  the  unfinished,  aban- 
doned well.  When  Mary  turned  toward  her  sister  a 
moment  later,  Hilda  was  gesticulating  excitedly  with 
her  right  hand,  while  she  held  the  finger-tips  of  her  left 
hand  to  her  lips. 

They  drew  together  at  the  edge  of  the  old  well  and 
stood  there,  turning  toward  each  other  faces  which  were 
rigid  with  consternation.  They  had  both  heard  the 
sound  again,  and  they  knew  it  came  from  the  depths 
of  the  abandoned  well.  They  wished  to  look  down  into 
the  well,  but  dread  of  what  they  might  see  there  re- 
strained them. 


240  ROSY 

They  hurried  away,  moved  by  a  common  impulse 
of  horror.  They  did  not  enter  the  house  again.  They 
moved  stumblingly  around  the  path  and  out  into  the 
road.  The  stillness  of  the  empty  house,  and  the  whole 
slowly  darkening  mountain,  chilled  them.  They  walked 
excitedly  until  they  were  on  their  own  front  porch;  and 
then  they  stopped  with  a  certain  chagrin,  because  they 
had  not  seized  a  rare  opportunity  to  pursue  to  the  end 
an  exciting  adventure.  Why  had  they  come  away  from 
the  well  without  looking  down  into  it?  There  was  noth- 
ing to  harm  them.  And  what  had  they  found  out  ?  Ac- 
tually nothing. 

"We  ought  to  tell  father,"  said  Hilda,  in  the  defiant 
manner  of  one  who  supposes  that  anything  she  suggests 
will  be  the  wrong  thing.  And  when  she  went  to  tell 
her  father,  who  was  around  on  the  back  veranda,  Mary 
looked  after  her  as  if  she  were  saying:  "Now  you're 
going  to  do  it !"  But  she  listened  eagerly  to  hear  what 
her  father  would  say. 

"Imachination!"  is  what  he  said.  He  repeated  it, 
frowning — "Imachination."  Still,  he  said  he  would  go 
and  investigate.  They  would  have  followed  at  a  safe 
distance,  but  he  turned  upon  them  gruffly.  Their  mother 
•would  like  to  see  what  color  their  hair  was,  he  said,  if 
they  would  go  into  the  kitchen  where  there  was  work  to 
be  done. 

They  went  into  the  house  and  watched  him  through 
a  window.  He  went  along  the  bench  road,  his  feet  carry- 
ing him  with  habitual  deliberation,  though  there  was 
something  in  his  carriage,  in  his  general  appearance, 
signifying  grave  concern.  Hilda  whispered,  "He  knows 
more  than  he'll  tell."  They  watched  him  until  he  was 
out  of  sight. 

.  .  .  He  went  straight  to  the  well;  and  then  he 
stood,  looking  casually  about  him.  He  wished  to  be 


ROSY  241 

sure  that  he  was  not  observed.  He  had  been  guided, 
from  the  instant  he  entered  the  yard,  by  a  despairing, 
faint  cry,  sounding  almost  at  regular  intervals.  Even 
when  that  cry  was  repeated  again  he  continued  to  look 
about  him  in  a  seemingly  careless  fashion.  But  at  last 
he  put  aside  all  pretense  and  addressed  himself  directly 
to  the  task  of  climbing  down  into  the  well. 

An  extraordinary  change  had  taken  place  in  him  when 
he  emerged,  perhaps  fifteen  minutes  later.  It  was  now 
quite  dark,  so  that  there  was  no  need  for  him  to  move 
warily  when  he  reappeared.  Still,  he  did  move  warily; 
and  his  eyes  held  a  strangely  introspective  expression. 
He  moved  away  from  the  old  well  very  much  like  a 
guilty  man;  and  when  he  had  placed  a  considerable 
distance  between  himself  and  the  well  his  amazement 
scarcely  knew  any  bounds. 

He  had  hoped  that  Rosy  would  return  while  he  was 
in  the  cavern.  He  did  not  wish  to  seem  to  spy  upon 
her  life  or  affairs  in  any  way.  But  she  had  not  returned; 
and  he  reflected  upon  her  absence,  and  upon  other  things, 
and  finally  he  took  his  place  upon  Rosy's  front  porch, 
where  he  sat  in  the  dark  waiting  for  her.  He  would  be 
late  for  supper,  which  would  be  a  very  good  thing.  When 
he  got  home  he  could  begin  eating  right  away,  so  that 
he  need  not  say  anything. 

She  emerged  from  the  shadows  of  the  bench  road 
after  a  time.  He  heard  her,  in  fact,  before  he  could  see 
her.  She  was  calling  back  to  some  one — seemingly  to 
some  one  who  had  accompanied  her  down  from  the 
mountain.  And  her  voice  was  resonant,  bell-like — even 
triumphant.  And  old  Feld  shook  his  head  in  bewilder- 
ment. He  mused:  "So  care-free,  Rosy?  How  can  that 
be?" 

It  had  seemed  to  him  that  there  were  certain  things 


242  ROSY 

he  must  say  to  her;  but  her  gay  voice  had  a  disturbing 
effect  upon  him.  How  could  he  say  ...  no,  no;  he 
could  not  say  quite  what  he  had  meant  to  say. 

She  cried  out  when  she  recognized  him — a  cry  which 
began  on  a  note  of  alarm  and  ended  joyously.  "Mr. 
Feld!" 

"Ah,  it's  you,  Rosy!"  He  was  more  and  more  at  a 
loss  as  to  what  to  say  to  her. 

She  could  tell  that  he  was  far  from  being  at  ease. 
"  Did  you  want  something  ?  "  she  asked.  She  was  frown- 
ing slightly.  It  was  not  Jacob  Feld's  way  to  be  embar- 
rassed, or  to  make  a  mystery  out  of  things.  Yet  she 
knew  very  well  that  something  of  more  than  common 
importance  was  in  his  mind. 

He  thought  of  a  way  out  of  what  had  become  a  pre- 
dicament. He  knew  what  he  should  say.  "Have  you 
heard  the  news,  Rosy?" 

There  was  instant  relief  in  her  tone.  "Oh,  that  was 
it!"  she  cried.  "Bless  me,  yes!  I  think  everybody 
must  have  heard  it.  People  are  talking  of  nothing  else." 

She  could  not  read  the  expression  in  his  eyes.  "To 
think  of  Nat  being  such  a  brave  young  fellow ! "  he  said. 

She  drew  a  step  closer  to  him,  trying  to  see  him  better. 
It  was  growing  quite  dark.  She  did  not  reply.  She  was 
wondering  what  was  in  his  mind.  There  had  been  a 
kind  of  tell-tale  note  in  his  voice.  However,  she  was 
much  later  in  returning  than  she  had  meant  to  be,  and 
she  sought  to  excuse  herself.  "I  am  afraid  I  must  be 
in  a  hurry,"  she  said,  moving  forward  a  step.  "I've 
been  up  to  the  summit.  I'm  afraid  I've  been  neglecting 
my  duties  scandalously.  The  poor  hens  have  gone  to 
roost  without  their  supper." 

He  echoed  the  words — "The  poor  hens.  ..."  He 
seemed  about  to  move  away,  and  then  he  checked  him- 
self. "Rosy!"  he  said.  His  tone  was  such  that  she 


ROSY  243 

abandoned  whatever  thoughts  were  in  her  mind.  She 
turned  toward  him  again,  and  again  she  tried  to  read 
his  eyes  through  the  deep  gloom. 

"Rosy,"  he  persisted,  "you  know  I'm  not  a — a  busy- 
body, what  they  call  it.  No?" 

"You're  my  good  friend,"  said  Rosy,  breathing 
deeply. 

"So.  Well,  you  know  the  best  of  us — even  the  young 
people — have  their  troubles  sometimes,  when  it's  good 
to  have  somebody  to  help:  somebody  that  will  look  at 
just  one  picture  without  wanting  to  see  every  picture 
in  the  book." 

"It's  true,"  said  Rosy. 

"And  so  ...  well,  it's  like  this.  I  don't  want  you 
to  forget  Jacob  Feld  if  there's  ever  need  of  help  here  in 
your  house,  Rosy.  Trust  me  all  you  will.  You  know, 
I  often  see  you  go  by  with  your  head  up  like  a  flower, 
and  I  think:  'Rosy  has  had  her  troubles,  but  she  carries 
her  head  like  a  flower,  all  the  same.'  But  if  an  old  man 
could  help  sometimes — that  would  be  a  fine  thing  for 
me,  Rosy.  If  ever  you  need  me,  I  mean.  Eh?"  He 
was  patting  her  on  the  arm ;  his  voice  was  like  her  father's 
voice  as  it  used  to  be  when  he  was  greatly  pleased  with 
her,  or  when  she  had  hurt  herself. 

She  answered  eagerly:  "I'll  never  be  afraid  to  trust 
you,  Mr.  Feld,  if  that's  what  you  mean.  And  I'll  call 
on  you,  and  be  grateful,  when  you  can  help  me." 

He  turned  away  then  and  walked  quickly  from  her. 
He  called  back,  "I  think  you  ought  to  be  in  a  hurry"; 
and  she  was  pondering  this  last  statement  of  his  as  she 
went  into  the  house.  What  had  he  meant  by  it  ?  Was 
it  one  of  the  queer  things  he  said  because  he  had  not 
learned  to  speak  English  in  his  youth,  or  did  he  really 
mean  something? 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

SHE  could  not  quite  conquer  a  feeling  of  guilt  as 
she  entered  the  house  and  lit  the  lamp.  She  had  been 
gone  an  unusually  long  time.  She  thought:  "He  will  be 
very  angry  with  me."  She  remembered  what  his  de- 
meanor had  been  that  morning,  and  at  noon,  and  things 
which  had  not  impressed  her  particularly  at  the  time 
now  flashed  before  her  mind  as  things  of  significance. 
He  had  had  scarcely  a  word  to  say  to  her;  and  there 
had  been  in  his  silence  something  like  complete  sur- 
render. It  had  not  seemed  to  spring  from  a  wish  to  be 
disagreeable. 

She  recalled  a  memorable  picture  of  him  as  he  had 
been  the  second  day  after  his  sisters  had  died — and  a 
great  wave  of  pity  swept  over  her.  On  that  occasion 
he  had  spoken  to  her  humbly,  softly.  He  had  taken  his 
place  near  the  mouth  of  the  cavern  and  had  sat,  staring 
with  brooding  eyes  across  the  distant  river,  and  then 
to  the  thread  of  valley  road  winding  along  on  the  near 
side  of  the  river.  It  had  passed,  at  length — the  double 
funeral  procession.  He  had  sat  and  drooped  and  gazed 
incredulously.  There  had  been  glints  of  light  struck 
from  one  of  the  vehicles  which  had  a  highly  polished 
surface.  That  had  been  one  of  the  hearses.  And  then 
there  had  been  another  vehicle  of  the  same  type,  with 
glints  of  light  showing  where  its  highly  polished  surfaces 
caught  the  rays  of  the  sun.  It  was  so  that  Fanny  and 
Evelyn  had  passed  forever.  The  procession  had  wound 
its  way  into  a  stretch  of  woods.  It  was  gone. 

Rosy  had  stood  behind  him,  scarcely  willing  to 

244 


ROSY  245 

breathe,  while  he  watched.  Even  after  the  last  vehicle 
had  passed  from  sight,  engulfed  in  the  patch  of  woods, 
she  had  not  known  what  to  say  to  him.  She  could  only 
marvel  that  he  had  not  cast  aside  all  constraint,  all 
secrecy,  and  gone  home.  She  had  even  wanted  to  sug- 
gest that  he  should  do  so.  But  he  had  said  nothing  at 
all  about  going  home.  He  had  seemed  to  consider  such 
a  course  wholly  out  of  the  question. 

.  .  .  She  lighted  the  fire  with  trembling  fingers. 
Really,  she  should  not  have  remained  away  so  long. 
She  thought  to  make  amends  by  preparing  something 
specially  nice  for  his  supper.  He  was  very  fond  of 
potatoes  chopped  up  fine  with  onion  and  baked  in  the 
oven.  She  set  about  preparing  this  dish  for  him.  She 
poached  eggs  and  made  fresh  coffee.  And  after  she  had 
worked  musingly  for  half  an  hour,  and  night  had  settled 
down  upon  the  mountain  as  profoundly  as  if  it  were 
very  late,  she  realized  with  sudden  pallor  and  the  lift- 
ing of  her  head  that  she  had  been  hearing  a  faint  sound 
for  a  long  time:  a  far-off,  intermittent  sound  as  of  a 
nightbird  in  a  hollow.  She  stood  perfectly  still,  listening. 
There  was  silence:  an  interminable  silence,  it  seemed  to 
her.  And  then  she  seemed  to  shrink  as  if  she  had  been 
struck.  She  cast  one  hurried,  comprehensive  glance  at 
the  things  she  had  been  preparing  for  supper,  and  then 
she  hurried  away  into  the  yard. 

She  was  fearfully  alarmed  when  she  stood  beside  him. 
He  was  lying  down  and  his  hands  were  clasped  across 
his  eyes.  It  was  plain  that  he  had  drawn  covers  over 
him  when  he  had  lain  down,  or  at  some  time  later,  but 
now  he  had  thrust  them  aside.  His  face  was  flushed. 
She  could  see  this  by  the  light  of  the  lamp  on  the  table. 
And  even  as  she  stood  beside  him  he  lifted  himself  with 
a  struggle  and  cried  again:  "Rosy!"  The  word  was 
long  drawn  out,  quavering,  despairing. 


246  ROSY 

"I  am  here!"  she  said  breathlessly.  She  did  not 
recognize  her  own  voice,  it  was  so  changed. 

He  removed  his  hands  from  his  eyes  and  looked  at 
her  wonderingly.  For  one  dreadful  instant  it  seemed 
to  her  that  he  did  not  recognize  her.  Then  he  said— 
"Rosy!  Thank  God!  I'm  ill,  Rosy.  I  thought  I  should 
die."  He  breathed  deeply,  as  if  a  crisis  had  been  passed, 
and  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands  again. 

She  tried  to  draw  his  hands  away  from  his  eyes,  but 
he  cried  out:  "Don't — I  can't  bear  to  see!" 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  Her  tone  was  so  forlorn  that 
it  should  have  touched  him.  "If  I  had  known  ...  I 
went  up  to  the  summit,  you  know.  Some  friends  are 
going  away  to-morrow.  If  I  had  only  known.  .  .  ." 

She  was  alarmed  by  the  strange  calm  that  was  settling 
over  him.  "Have  you  been  ill  long?"  she  asked;  and 
when  he  did  not  reply  promptly  she  added — "What  is 
it?" 

"I  thought  I  should  burn  up.  I  seemed  to  be  afire. 
I  never  felt  so  before.  Rosy !  .  .  .  I'm  so  glad  you  came 
at  last!" 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  forehead.  "Yes,  you've  a 
fever,"  she  said.  She  moved  back  a  step  and  looked  at 
him  in  perplexity.  She  had  had  almost  no  personal  ex- 
perience with  illnesses.  Still,  she  remembered.  .  .  . 

"You  want  quinine,"  she  declared.  She  was  trying 
to  remember  where  her  mother  had  kept  the  quinine. 
A  gleam  of  relief  lit  her  eyes.  "Wait!"  she  said. 

She  was  gone,  quickly  and  silently  as  a  shadow;  and 
he  was  calling  after  her:  "Don't  be  gone  long,  Rosy!" 

Presently  she  stood  beside  him  again,  a  bottle  of 
quinine  in  one  hand  and  a  teaspoon  in  the  other.  She 
had  placed  a  glass  of  water  on  the  table  near  by.  "You 
must  sit  up,"  she  said.  "Shall  I  help  you?  You  must 
take  this." 


ROSY  247 

He  regarded  her  musingly,  as  if  her  presence  were 
enough.  His  mind  was  wandering.  But  at  last  he  took 
in  the  squat  blue  bottle  and  the  spoon.  "I  can't  take 
it  that  way,"  he  said,  with  a  return  of  his  querulous 
tone.  "Haven't  you  got  any  capsules?" 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  she  said  reluctantly.  And  then,  as 
if  she  hoped  to  make  amends  by  humoring  him  in  even 
a  very  small  matter,  she  added:  "I  might  get  some. 
But  you'll  have  to  wait  a  few  minutes." 

She  had  decided  to  go  to  one  of  the  neighbors  and  get 
capsules.  The  Felds,  first;  and  if  they  had  none  .  .  . 
she  tried  to  think  where  she  should  prefer  to  go  next, 
if  the  Felds  could  not  give  her  the  capsules  she  required. 

She  was  much  relieved  to  find  that  Jacob  Feld  could 
supply  her  need.  He  had  capsules,  already  filled.  But 
even  in  her  disturbed  state  of  mind  she  could  not  help 
noting  that  there  was  something  strange  in  Mr.  Feld's 
manner.  It  was  as  if  he  had  expected  her — almost  as 
if  he  perfectly  understood  her  predicament.  He  did 
not  look  at  her  directly  as  she  sat,  waiting  for  Mary 
to  bring  the  capsules.  It  might  have  been  supposed 
that  he  feared  his  eyes  might  reveal  certain  knowledge. 
But  there  was  an  odd  expression  of  approval,  of  pride, 
on  his  lips,  as  he  sat  regarding  the  oblong  rug,  made 
of  colored  rags,  at  his  feet.  And  she  realized  that  Hilda 
was  regarding  her  searchingly,  too.  But  then  Hilda 
always  looked  at  you  so;  and  it  really  must  seem  strange: 
her  coming  to  borrow  capsules,  when  it  was  known  that 
she  lived  alone,  and  any  one  could  see  that  she  was  not 
ill.  She  was  glad  of  a  habitual  placidity  in  Mrs.  Feld's 
manner.  Mrs.  Feld  was  like  an  afternoon  nap:  restful, 
savoring  of  peace  and  well-being.  She  drew  a  needle 
high  above  her  right  shoulder,  and  looked  at  the  piece 
of  goods  on  her  lap,  and  asked  Rosy  if  all  the  people 
were  gone  from  the  summit  yet.  To  her  the  summit 


248  ROSY 

was  like  a  summer  cloud :  it  had  its  place  in  the  general 
scheme  of  things,  but  it  was  not  within  her  reach.  She 
was  growing  fleshier  every  year. 

.  .  .  Almost  as  soon  as  Rosy  had  taken  her  place 
at  the  invalid's  side  again  she  was  greatly  disturbed  by 
the  first  question  that  was  put  to  her:  "Did  you  know 
of  anybody  being  here  while  you  were  gone? — this  after- 
noon, I  mean." 

"Here?"  she  cried.  "No,  of  course  not!"  Her 
thought  was  that  he  must  have  been  more  seriously  ill 
than  she  had  supposed.  She  knew  that  sick  persons 
often  imagine  things.  "No,  nobody  could  have  been 
here.  It's  quite  out  of  the  question." 

He  replied  almost  listlessly,  as  if  he  had  ceased  to 
care  about  the  fate  which  seemed  about  to  overtake 
him.  "Old  Feld  was  here,"  he  said.  "He  was  standing 
just  where  you  are  standing  now.  He  stood  staring  at 
me.  I  saw  him,  and  then  after  a  while  he  was  gone.  I 
didn't  know  when  he  went." 

She  regarded  him  intently,  yet  with  increasing  in- 
credulity. "Did  he  say  anything?"  she  asked. 

He  seemed  to  be  trying  to  remember;  but  his  mind 
wandered  and  he  did  not  reply  at  all. 

She  was  quite  sure  Jacob  Feld  had  not  been  there; 
and  yet.  .  .  . 

She  gave  him  the  quinine  and  then  hurriedly  held 
the  glass  of  water,  so  that  he  could  wash  it  down.  He 
gulped  and  passed  the  glass  back  to  her  and  after  she 
supposed  that  he  had  forgotten  about  the  delusion  that 
Jacob  Feld  had  been  there  he  said:  "So  you  see,  it's 
all  up  with  me  now.  There's  no  sense  in  my  staying 
here  any  longer.  You  might  as  well  have  me  taken 
home.  And  when  I'm  well.  .  .  ." 

She  responded  to  this  with  energy:  "If  Mr.  Feld 
does  know  of  your  being  here  it  needn't  make  any  dif- 


ROSY  249 

ference.  I  think  he's  suspected  all  along  that  there  was 
something  strange.  .  .  .  He's  a  true  friend.  He'll  not 
say  anything,  that's  certain." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  little  flash  of  eagerness.  "Do 
you  think  so?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  sure  of  it,"  she  replied.  But  at  the  same  time 
she  was  thinking:  "He  must  have  imagined  it.  He  did 
imagine  it,  of  course.  Yet  it  seems  the  strangest  thing ! " 
She  asked  after  a  pause:  "Was  it  after  the  fever  was 
on  you?"  But  he  was  pondering  anxiously  and  did 
not  seem  to  hear.  At  least  he  did  not  reply  to  her;  and 
she  repeated  to  herself — "He  only  imagined  it." 

She  thought  of  the  supper  she  had  prepared;  but  when 
she  spoke  to  him  of  supper  he  shuddered.  He  begged 
her  not  to  speak  of  anything  to  eat.  And  she  did  not 
urge  him  to  eat.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  for  him 
to  fast  for  the  present;  and  in  the  morning  she  would 
kill  a  hen  and  make  broth  for  him.  It  might  be  better 
for  him  to  eat  nothing  but  broth  for  a  day  or  two. 

She  left  him  long  enough  to  put  the  supper  things 
away,  and  to  bring  her  sewing;  and  then  she  settled 
down  for  a  long  vigil.  She  had  learned  that  it  soothed 
him  to  have  her  sit  by  the  lamp  and  work,  even  if  no 
words  passed  between  them.  And  now  she  tried  to 
impress  him  as  a  kind  of  restful  influence ;  though  secretly 
she  was  greatly  disturbed.  She  thought  he  might  be 
better  off  up  in  the  house  than  here  in  the  cavern;  and 
it  might  be  necessary  to  call  in  a  doctor.  And  these  re- 
flections appalled  her,  since  the  things  which  seemed 
necessary  to  his  well-being  were  also  the  things  which 
would  almost  certainly  lead  to  his  betrayal. 

He  seemed  to  doze  lightly;  and  when  he  stirred  un- 
easily and  moaned  an  hour  later  she  gave  him  quinine 
again,  and  again  he  sank  back  on  his  bed  and  closed 
his  eyes.  She  thought  she  might  be  able  to  remain  with 


25o  ROSY 

him  until  well  on  toward  morning;  and  then  he  might 
be  easier,  and  she  could  leave  him  and  get  a  little  sleep 
herself. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  ages  passed;  and  then  she  was 
brought  to  a  sudden  realization  that  her  work  had 
dropped  to  her  lap  and  that  she  had  fallen  asleep,  there 
in  her  chair.  She  was  disturbed  by  a  cry  of  surrender, 
of  despair.  "Rosy! — for  God's  sake,  Rosy!  I  can't 
stand  it  any  longer!" 

She  was  standing  beside  him  instantly.  "What  is 
it  ? "  she  asked.  She  tried  to  create  the  impression  that 
she  had  been  awake  all  the  time.  He  only  reiterated 
the  words — "I  can't  stand  it!"  And  she  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  something  must  be  done,  after  all.  She 
looked  about  her  in  despair.  And  now  she  realized  that 
the  cavern  was  a  place  of  stark  desolation,  and  by  no 
means  a  place  where  pleasant  fancies  might  be  encour- 
aged. Clearly  it  was  no  place  for  one  who  was  ill — one 
whose  illness  might  take  the  form  of  evil  dreams. 

She  was  face  to  face  with  a  difficult  reality.  She  knew 
that  a  crisis  in  her  affairs  had  come.  And  even  yet  she 
could  not  think  what  it  would  be  best  to  do. 

She  thought  of  Jacob  Feld.  She  might  call  upon  him 
and  reveal  everything — if,  indeed,  he  had  not  already 
discovered  everything  for  himself.  But  she  shrank  even 
in  the  moment  of  her  helplessness  from  such  a  course. 
What  he  had  found  out  for  himself  he  could  keep  a  secret; 
but  if  it  ever  became  known  that  she  had  told  him — then 
the  responsibility  of  wrong-doing  would  be  his  as  well 
as  hers.  And  their  cases  were  not  at  all  alike.  After 
all,  he  was  a  German — in  that  new,  unfriendly  classifica- 
tion  which  people  had  been  making  since  the  war  began. 
And  persons  who  might  forgive  her  for  harboring  Min- 
turn  would  blame  Feld  bitterly,  if  it  should  be  known 
that  he  had  had  a  share  in  his  concealment.  Most  signif- 


ROSY  251 

icant  of  all,  she  had  a  good  reason  for  acting  as  she  had 
done — a  reason  which  she  should  be  able  to  gire  with 
triumphant  pride,  when  the  time  came.  But  what  reason 
would  Jacob  Feld  ever  be  able  to  give? 

She  reasoned  that  it  would  not  be  fair — that  it  would 
be  dishonorable — to  tell  Jacob  Feld  everything.  It 
would  be  to  place  upon  him  a  burden  which  no  honest 
man  would  wish  to  carry.  She  would  gladly  have  shared 
with  him  any  secret  which  touched  only  her  own  per- 
sonal welfare;  but  to  involve  him  with  her  in  a  guilty 
course.  .  .  .  No,  she  would  not  tell  him. 

She  thought  suddenly  of  Judge  Powell.  And  it  was 
only  a  step  from  the  thought  of  Judge  Powell  to  the 
realization  that  there  was  a  physician  up  at  the  summit 
hotel.  There  always  was.  There  were  a  good  many  of 
the  guests  who  would  never  have  come  to  the  hotel  if 
they  had  not  been  assured  that  there  was  a  physician 
within  ready  call. 

She  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief.  Going  up  to  the 
summit  at  a  late  hour,  and  getting  Judge  Powell  out  of 
his  bed,  perhaps,  and  explaining  to  him  that  there  was 
need  of  a  physician  down  on  the  bench — these  were  not 
the  tasks  she  would  have  preferred,  but  they  were  all 
possible  of  accomplishment,  after  all. 

The  invalid's  cry  again  smote  her  ears:  "Can't  you 
do  anything  for  me,  Rosy?" 

"Yes,  there's  something  I  can  do,"  she  hurriedly  as- 
sured him.  "I'll  go  for  a  doctor.  The  hotel  doctor 
ought  to  be  there  yet.  If  he  is,  no  one  need  ever  be  any 
the  wiser.  He  needn't  know  why  you're  here.  I  mean, 
it  won't  be  like  getting  one  of  our  own  doctors.  Those 
city  people  have  strange  ideas,  anyway.  He  might 
think  this  is  where  we  live.  At  any  rate,  he'll  not  worry 
about  what  he  doesn't  understand.  He'll  see  what  has 
to  be  done  for  you,  and  he'll  go  away,  and  that  will  be 


252  ROSY 

all  there  is  to  it.  I'll  have  to  be  gone  some  time,  you 
know.  And  you  mustn't  worry.  You  must  just  be 
sure  that  everything  will  come  out  all  right." 

He  listened  with  his  eyes  closed.  He  was  wondering 
if  she  really  felt  as  confident  as  she  seemed  to  feel.  She 
had  almost  persuaded  him  to  believe  that  no  new  menace 
hung  over  them,  after  all.  But  when  he  opened  his  eyes 
and  turned  his  head  to  reply  to  her  she  was  gone. 

When  she  passed  the  Felds'  she  tried  to  carry  the 
lantern  on  the  far  side  of  her  so  that  she  should  not  be 
observed,  and  she  moved  stealthily  as  a  mouse.  It  was 
between  twelve  and  one,  and  she  supposed  every  one 
must  have  been  in  bed  for  hours.  Still,  there  was  never 
any  telling  when  people  might  be  stirring  in  the  night. 

It  was  oppressively  quiet.  The  tiny  creatures  which 
make  the  mountain  vocal  during  the  period  of  dusk 
and  for  hours  afterward  were  not  to  be  heard.  An  owl 
on  some  far,  obscure  slope  screamed  at  intervals,  but 
the  cry  was  as  if  it  came  from  another  world.  She  even 
imagined  she  could  hear  the  trickle  of  Jacob  Feld's 
spring,  down  in  the  limitless  gorge  into  which  it  emptied. 
And  then  she  was  painfully  startled  by  the  sound  of  her 
own  name.  It  came  with  an  effect  of  stealthiness,  of 
persuasion:  "Rosy!  Rosy!" 

She  knew  instantly  that  it  was  Jacob  Feld,  and  it 
came  to  her  in  a  flash  that  he  must  have  been  waiting 
for  her. 

He  approached  her  closely,  warily,  whispering: 
"There's  something  to  do — no?" 

She  drew  back  from  him  with  an  odd  effect,  as  of  one 
who  knows  that  her  presence  means  infection.  She 
was  repeating  to  herself:  "I  will  not  tell  him!"  But 
she  could  think  of  no  answer  at  all  to  make  to  him.  She 
only  knew  that  the  solemn  silence  of  the  night  wrapped 


ROSY  253 

them  about.  She  had  the  thought  that  they  two  must 
not  speak  aloud,  lest  the  old  mountain  stir  and  moan 
in  its  sleep.  And  then  far  away  down  the  hidden  slope 
the  owl  screamed  again.  Above  her  the  sky  was  outlined 
nebulously  against  the  summit. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

SHE  knew  presently  what  she  should  say.  She  tried 
to  speak  calmly.  "There's  something  I  want  to  say  to 
Judge  Powell,  up  on  the  summit.  They're  going  away 
to-morrow." 

She  knew  very  well  that  he  would  not  question  her 
stupidly;  that  he  would  not  say:  "But  it's  pretty  late, 
Rosy.  Couldn't  you  see  him  in  the  morning?"  He 
said  nothing  of  the  kind.  His  next  words  were:  "So. 
Well,  I'm  going  as  far  as  the  top  of  the  steps  with  you. 
Let  me  carry  the  lantern." 

He  took  the  lantern  from  her  hand  and  they  set  off 
together.  Where  the  steps  began  he  took  her  by  the 
hand,  much  as  if  she  had  been  a  child;  as  if  they  were 
both  children.  And  as  she  put  her  hand  into  his  she 
said:  "Dear  Mr.  Feld!"  A  sudden  warmth  burned 
within  her;  in  her  bosom,  in  her  throat,  about  her  eyes. 
But  there  were  no  further  words  between  them. 

Up  they  climbed,  disturbing  a  cricket  here  and  there. 
At  the  landing-places  they  stopped  to  catch  their  breath, 
each  stopping  out  of  consideration  for  the  other,  though 
Rosy  would  much  rather  have  gone  all  the  way  without 
stopping.  Slumbering  boughs  hung  all  about  them. 
Sometimes  through  openings  they  could  see  little  dim 
lights  far  away,  in  the  valley,  in  Pisgah.  Through  the 
boughs  above  them  stars  shone. 

At  the  summit,  where  her  way  lay  clear  to  the  side- 
walk which  led  to  the  hotel,  he  gave  the  lantern  back 
to  her.  And  then  he  said,  turning  his  eyes  away  from 
hers:  "There'll  be  some  one  to  come  back  with  you — 
no?  You'll  not  want  me  to  wait?" 

"Oh,  no!"  she  said  eagerly.  "You  mustn't  wait. 

254 


ROSY  255 

Yes,  there  will  be  some  one  to  see  that  I  get  back  all 
right."  And  then  she  left  him,  hurrying  away  with 
no  further  thought  of  him.  At  best  she  must  be  gone 
from  the  bench  a  long  time;  and  she  feared  she  might 
be  needed  there  urgently. 

There  was  a  bright  light  in  the  hotel  office,  in  the 
distance.  And  that  cheered  her;  that  and  certain  sounds 
she  heard.  There  was  a  fault  murmur  of  machinery 
somewhere  in  the  outhouse  away  from  the  hotel.  It 
was  the  motor  upon  which  depended  the  electric  light 
used  at  the  hotel  and  in  some  of  the  cottages.  It  was 
scarcely  a  noise.  It  was  so  indistinct  that  it  might  have 
been  likened  to  a  chemical  in  imperfect  solution  in  a 
glass  of  water;  a'  sediment  of  the  day's  sounds  which 
had  not  wholly  dissolved. 

However,  the  hotel  office  was  entirely  deserted,  despite 
the  bright  light,  when  she  entered  it.  The  register  had 
been  closed,  the  chairs  had  been  ranged  in  straight  lines 
against  the  wall.  Surely  there  was  no  one  about?  .  .  . 

And  then  she  heard  a  faint  murmur,  like  a  low,  be- 
nevolent growl,  away  on  one  of  the  verandas.  She  went 
to  a  door  and  looked  out,  her  figure  being  outlined  in 
the  doorway  between  the  regions  of  obscurity  and  light. 
She  saw,  little  by  little,  figures  seated  over  against  the 
railing:  one,  two,  perhaps  several.  Then  there  was 
the  sudden  rasping  sound  of  a  chair  being  pushed  back, 
and  some  one  was  approaching  her. 

She  stepped  back  into  the  lighted  office;  and  she  was 
waiting,  a  tremulous  smile  on  her  lips,  when  the  manager 
appeared  in  the  doorway.  His  eyes  were  blinking  in 
the  bright  light.  He  became  deeply  concerned  when 
he  saw  her.  She  would  not  have  been  coming  to  the 
hotel  at  this  hour  unless  something  had  gone  wrong. 
He  came  close  to  her,  bending  his  head  to  hear  what  she 
had  to  say. 


256  ROSY 

She  perceived  that  he  was  startled;  perhaps  she  had 
anticipated  this.  She  murmured  hurriedly:  "It  isn't 
anything  very  serious.  But  I — I  want  to  speak  to  Judge 
Powell  a  minute,  if  I  may."  She  was  about  to  add,  "I 
have  heard  that  he  is  going  away  in  the  morning/'  but 
she  did  not  say  this.  The  manager  would  know  sooner 
or  later  that  she  had  come  for  the  doctor,  and  she  felt 
that  she  should  be  ashamed  to  deal  triflingly  with  one 
who  had  always  been  a  true  friend. 

"Right  away,"  said  the  manager.  "He's  out  on  the 
veranda  now.  We've  been  holding  a  sort  of — wake, 
should  you  say?  It's  the  end  of  the  season,  you  know." 
He  drew  a  chair  forward  for  her.  "If  you'll  wait,"  he 
added.  And  then  he  was  gone. 

It  was  Judge  Powell  who  appeared  next.  Rosy  heard 
him,  out  in  the  dark,  exclaiming  her  name  as  if  he  were 
repeating  it:  "Eh?  Rosy?  I  wonder — "  And  then 
}je  was  coming  toward  her,  his  eyes  blinking  as  the 
manager's  had  done.  But  all  his  surprise  had  been  let 
loose  out  there  on  the  veranda.  Now  he  simply  ap- 
proached her  as  if  there  were  nothing  extraordinary  in 
her  appearing  here  at  this  hour. 

She  tried  not  to  seem  too  eager.  "You  see  I've  come 
back,"  she  said,  smiling  faintly.  She  came  to  the  point 
immediately.  "There's  a  doctor  needed  down  on  the 
bench,  and  it  seemed  best  .  .  .  there  was  nobody  to 
come  but  me.  I  thought  maybe  the  doctor  was  still 
here.  I  don't  know  him,  you  know.  I  thought  maybe 
I  might  speak  to  you  first." 

It  all  seemed  perfectly  simple.  The  judge's  face 
cleared.  "That  was  right,"  he  said.  "Yes,  the  doctor 
is  still  here.  He's  been  out  on  the  veranda  with  us.  We 
were  smoking  an  extra  cigar  to-night — because  it's  my 
last  chance  for  the  year,  you  know.  I'll  tell  him." 

He  went  away,  and  there  was  a  murmur  a  little  more 


ROSY  '257 

clearly  outlined  than  that  murmur  Rosy  had  heard  upon 
her  arrival;  and  then  Judge  Powell  came  back  into 
the  office.  "He's  gone  to  get  his  kit,  or  whatever  you 
call  it.  He'll  be  ready  in  a  minute." 

He  was  silent  then,  in  the  way  which  suggests  a  hint 
or  an  invitation.  He  thought  perhaps  she  might  wish 
to  tell  him  who  it  was  that  required  a  physician.  But 
she  evidently  did  not  feel  the  need  of  confiding  in  him. 
She  said  nothing  more  about  her  mission,  save  that  it 
seemed  suddenly  to  occur  to  her  to  say — as  if  the  idea 
had  come  to  her  with  no  special  relationship  to  any- 
thing in  particular:  "I  want  you  to  tell  me  something, 
Judge — something  that  has  to  do  with  the  law." 

He  smiled  cheerfully.  "What  have  you  to  do  with 
the  law,  Rosy?" 

"Not  very  much,  I'm  afraid,"  she  replied  with  a  cer- 
tain ambiguity.  "But  I  want  to  suppose  a  case.  It's 
this:  If  a  person  has  broken  a  law,  and  the  person  goes 
and  tells  somebody  else  about  it,  does  it  make  the  other 
person  responsible  in  any  way?" 

The  judge  did  not  wholly  cease  to  smile  as  he  con- 
sidered. He  repeated  her  question  to  himself  with  a 
note  very  like  mockery — yet  kindly  mockery.  And 
then  he  said  decisively:  "Yes,  I  rather  think  it  would, 
in  most  instances.  Perhaps  in  every  instance.  I  mean, 
the  second  person  would  be  legally  obligated  to  report 
the  information  he  had  obtained,  or  be  prepared  to  take 
the  consequences,  if  it  became  known  that  he  knew  and 
had  not  divulged  his  information." 

She  replied  promptly:  "I  thought  so."  And  then  she 
went  on:  "But  if  the  person  didn't  tell  another  person, 
and  the  other  person  found  it  out  for  himself,  by  acci- 
dent, or  something  like  that,  then  is  the  second  person 
bound  to  tell  what  he  knows?" 

The  judge  was  now  frowning.    He  was  considering 


258  ROSY 

this  supposititious  case.  And  after  a  moment's  reflec- 
tion he  said:  "In  that  case  the  second  person  would 
have  to  deal  with  his  own  conscience.  If  he'd  never 
been  told,  and  if  he  felt  that  he  wasn't  in  honor  required 
to  go  to  the  authorities  with  his  information,  he  would 
be  quite  safe  in  saying  nothing.  You  see,  there  would 
be  no  way  of  proving  that  he  knew.  Do  I  make  it 
plain?" 

"Perfectly,"  said  Rosy.  "And  it's  just  what  I 
thought  about  it."  She  was  nodding  her  head.  And 
after  a  moment  she  added:  "That's  all.  Thank  you." 
And  while  the  judge  continued  to  regard  her,  with  a 
return  of  the  quiet  smile  to  his  eyes,  she  was  thinking: 
"Mr.  Feld  can  find  out  just  as  much  as  he  wants  to — 
so  long  as  I  don't  tell  him  anything." 

The  doctor  entered  the  office  then.  He  came  forward 
briskly,  and  Judge  Powell  explained  certain  things:  first 
of  all  that  Rosy  lived  down  on  the  bench,  and  was 
the  best  friend  he  had  anywhere  on  the  mountain,  and 
that  she  knew  a  way  down  a  flight  of  steps  that  brought 
you  to  the  bench  in  just  a  minute  or  two,  so  that  you 
needn't  go  all  the  way  around  the  road. 

The  manager  and  the  judge  stood  out  on  the  veranda 
as  Rosy  and  the  doctor  went  away,  and  both  of  them 
called  out  cheerfully,  yet  in  covered  tones:  "Good-by, 
Rosy!"  And  as  long  as  she  could  hear  they  had  not 
turned  back  into  the  office  again.  She  supposed  they 
would  wait  for  the  doctor  to  come  back.  And  for  a  mo- 
ment she  felt  a  wave  of  fear  engulfing  her,  because  it 
seemed  likely  that  they  would  want  to  know  all  about 
the  doctor's  patient. 

But  she  recovered  her  composure  instantly.  She 
thought:  "Judge  Powell  isn't  the  sort  of  man  who  would 
ask  anybody  to  tell  him  anything  about  me,  when  I'd 
had  a  chance  to  tell  him  myself,  and  didn't."  And  she 


ROSY  ±59 

knew  that  whatever  the  doctor  told  them — if  indeed 
he  should  tell  them  anything  at  all,  which  was  doubtful 
— she  need  not  worry,  as  they  were  not  the  kind  to  re- 
peat a  word,  if  they  supposed  it  might  cause  her  a  mo- 
ment's embarrassment. 

She  began  to  think  about  her  responsibilities  toward 
the  doctor.  She  had  scarcely  given  a  thought  to  him 
until  this  instant;  and  now  she  noted  with  surprise 
that  he  was  quite  a  young  man — not  at  all  like  the  doc- 
tors she  knew  best — and  that  he  moved  lightly,  as  if 
he  did  not  know  what  wool-gathering  meant,  and  that 
he  was  lifting  the  lantern  unnecessarily  high  every  little 
while  as  if  he  wished  to  see  the  way  better,  though  she 
knew  he  looked  at  her  instead  of  at  the  path  before 
them. 

She  was  very  glad  to  show  him  a  cordially  friendly 
side.  If  she  did  so,  she  reflected,  he  would  be  less  likely 
to  gossip,  when  he  came  to  look  back  at  what  would 
probably  seem  to  him  a  mysterious  adventure. 

Still,  she  hoped  that  he  would  not  see  anything  so 
'  very  strange  in  the  fact  that  he  was  called  to  give  medi- 
cine to  a  man  in  a  cavern.  She  had  always  understood 
that  the  smart  folk  of  the  city  and  of  distant  places  had 
very  amazing  ideas  about  everybody  who  lived  in  moun- 
tainous regions.  It  was  their  way  to  believe  that  the 
mountain-folk  were  forever  developing  feuds,  and  that 
the  men  often  operated  stills  in  hidden  places  where 
revenue  officers  would  not  find  them,  and  that  in  a  gen- 
eral way  they  were  most  careless  and  improvident  in 
their  mode  of  living.  She  hoped  the  doctor  would  con- 
clude that  the  patient  to  whose  bed  he  had  been  sum- 
moned to-night  was  just  an  ordinary  mountaineer,  living 
in  a  cavern  for  any  one  of  a  dozen  ordinary  reasons. 

At  the  top  of  the  steps  she  said:  "Shall  I  take  your 
hand?" 


26o  ROSY 

And  he  answered,  after  a  dubious  silence,  and  then 
quite  eagerly :  "  Yes,  please  do ! "  He  added :  "  I  suppose 
you'll  feel  a  little  safer  that  way?" 

She  smiled  more  broadly  as  he  lifted  the  lantern  again 
that  he  might  see  her  face.  "I  was  thinking  you'd  be 
more  safe,"  she  said.  "You  see,  I  know  the  way  per- 
fectly. But  there  isn't  really  any  more  danger  than 
there  would  be  in  going  down  any  other  long  flight  of 
stairs."  She  added  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone:  "We  nearly 
always  hold  hands  when  we  go  down  the  steps." 

He  gave  her  his  hand  as  if  in  token  of  an  alliance  or 
a  bond,  and  she  had  some  difficulty  with  it,  reducing 
it  to  the  condition  of  a  mere  passive  member  by  means 
of  which  one  might  lead  a  person  down  a  flight  of  steps. 
Then,  silently,  they  began  the  descent. 

She  was  glad  that  he  did  not  speak  as  they  passed 
Jacob  Feld's  house.  She  ventured  to  steal  a  glance  at 
the  house,  and  she  was  almost  sure  that  an  unobtrusive 
figure  was  outlined  obscurely  in  the  dense  shade  of  the 
front  porch. 

She  drew  her  breath  sharply  when  they  arrived  at 
the  old  well.  Some  one  had  been  there. 

A  ladder  had  been  lowered  into  the  well,  so  that  the 
descent  might  be  made  easily.  And  she  knew  who  had 
put  it  there;  but  she  only  said  to  herself:  "So  long  as 
I  don't  tell  him  anything,  it  will  be  all  right." 

"We  must  go  down  the  ladder,"  she  said  to  the  frankly 
amazed  young  physician;  and  then  she  added  casually: 
"He's  down  there  to-night."  She  took  the  lantern  from 
his  hand.  "I'll  go  first,  so  you  can  see  the  way  better," 
she  said. 

She  paused  on  the  ladder,-  because  she  had  an  idea 
he  wished  to  say  something. 

He  began  to  speak  in  a  pleasantly  whimsical  tone, 


ROSY  261 

making  a  little  joke  of  his  experience.  "I've  often  been 
summoned  to  the  sick,"  he  said,  "but  this  is  the  first 
time,  I'm  sure,  that  I've  ever  been  called  to  come  to 
the  well  I" 

She  smiled  back  at  him.  She  was  delighted  because 
he  wished  to  make  a  little  joke  of  the  matter.  "You 
mustn't  be  too  sure,"  she  said.  "There  is  old  Mrs.  Plant 
down  in  Pisgah.  I'm  told  she  screams  if  the  doctor 
doesn't  come  right  on  the  dot,  twice  a  week — and  yet 
they  say  she's  never  been  sick  a  day  in  her  life !" 

She  held  her  skirts  in  her  hand,  so  that  her  feet  were 
clear.  She  began  to  descend  the  ladder.  "Can  you 
see?"  she  called  back  to  him. 

"Perfectly,"  he  said;  and  then  he  too  was  descend- 
ing the  ladder. 


CHAPTER  XXVIH 

His  illness  was  pronounced  to  be  of  a  nature  not 
necessarily  alarming.  Malarial  fever,  the  doctor  said; 
and  Rosy  was  praised  for  her  good  judgment  in  ad- 
ministering quinine  without  any  delay.  She  was  told 
that  nothing  could  have  been  better.  And  though  a 
somewhat  more  complicated  form  of  treatment  was 
substituted  for  the  capsules  obtained  from  Jacob  Feld, 
Rosy  was  left  with  the  conviction  that  her  own  pre- 
scription, with  certain  variations,  was  being  continued. 

She  did  not  see  the  Powells  to  tell  them  good-by, 
though  they  drove  by  her  house  the  next  afternoon  and 
stopped.  They  were  disappointed  to  find  that  she  was 
not  at  home.  They  feared  she  might  have  gone  up  to 
the  summit  to  see  them  off;  and  so  they  went  away 
thinking  of  her  possible  disappointment,  rather  than 
their  own. 

She  was  in  her  place  in  the  cavern,  where  she  had 

\  begun  her  long  period  of  watching.    She  was  resolved 

"  to  perform  her  duties  as  nurse  with  perfect  fidelity.    She 

meant  to  convince  the  patient  that  not  only  her  services 

but  her  sympathies  were  his.    She  hoped  to  dispel  the 

heavy  gloom  from  that  shadowy  chamber  where  she 

and  he  were  to  fight  their  battle  together. 

The  young  physician  had  not  proved  at  all  offensively 
curious  as  to  the  surroundings  in  which  he  found  his 
patient.  Indeed,  he  had  not  referred  to  them  at  all  until 
Rosy  had  asked  him  frankly  if  the  patient's  condition 
required  that  he  be  removed  to  some  other  place.  He 
had  doubtless  read  something  of  anxiety  in  her  eyes 
as  she  asked  the  question,  and  his  reply  had  been  of  a 

262 


ROSY  263 

rather  equivocal  sort.  The  patient  was  not  too  ill  to 
be  removed,  he  said;  and  change,  as  a  general  thing, 
was  advantageous.  But  on  the  other  hand  there  was 
no  real  objection  to  be  urged  against  the  present  loca- 
tion. It  was  sufficiently  airy  and  quite  dry.  It  had 
also  the  advantage  of  being  quiet. 

The  doctor  had  also  speculated,  more  to  himself  than 
for  Rosy's  benefit,  as  to  the  geological  nature  of  the 
cavern.  He  had  said  something  about  its  extraordinary 
altitude,  if  it  were  to  be  considered  as  having  been  caused 
by  the  action  of  water,  though  he  supposed  that  hi  former 
ages  a  subterranean  stream  might  have  flowed  here, 
and  that  at  some  subsequent  time  it  had  found  a  lower 
level  and  outlet.  He  thought  it  more  probable,  however, 
that  the  vast  mural  chamber  might  have  been  of  volcanic 
origin.  He  thought  it  might  be  an  interesting  subject 
for  study  to  a  geologist;  and  then,  reverting  to  more 
immediate  matters,  he  had  said:  "And  these  powders 
.  .  .  they  are  to  be  given  every  hour  until  the  fever  is 
gone,  and  resumed  if  the  temperature  becomes  ab- 
normally high."  He  had  looked  at  Rosy  with  a  kind 
of  twinkling  intentness  when  he  gave  his  instructions, 
and  was  obviously  pleased  to  note  that  she  compre- 
hended perfectly. 

She  had  begun  to  be  quite  elated  by  the  thought  of 
her  efficiency  when — shortly  before  noon  the  next  day — 
her  pride  was  suddenly  humbled. 

Her  patient  had  been  sleeping  soundly  at  breakfast- 
time,  and  she  had  thought  it  unwise  to  disturb  him. 
But  when  the  dinner-hour  drew  near  he  was  awake; 
and  she  asked,  in  her  most  cheerful  tone:  "What  would 
you  like  to  have  for  dinner?" 

He  only  stared  at  her,  in  response  to  her  question; 
stared  at  her  incredulously,  and  with  an  expression  of 
deep  repugnance  on  his  face.  And  then  he  said,  with 


264  ROSY 

weak  rebellion:  "Don't!  Don't  mention  such  a  thing! 
I  couldn't  eat!" 

She  said  meekly:  "Very  well."  She  went  to  the  house 
and  had  a  hasty  luncheon  herself,  and  then  she  returned 
to  the  cavern,  prepared  to  perform  certain  household 
duties  there.  She  peeled  apples,  which  she  meant  to 
preserve;  a  large  basketful.  And  to  the  man  who 
watched  her,  between  moments  of  dozing,  she  began 
slowly  to  typify  much  that  was  most  precious  in  life 
as  she  sat  demurely  with  her  lap  filled  with  apples.  He 
watched  her,  with  latent  affection  stirring  faintly  in 
his  eyes,  as  she  turned  a  rosy  apple  round  and  round, 
its  rosiness  giving  place  to  a  creamy  whiteness  as  the 
peel  lengthened.  She  hummed  little  improvised  songs. 
When  he  thought  of  something  to  say  she  looked  up 
from  her  work  and  smiled  and  replied  to  him  with  only 
one  thought  actuating  her:  that  she  must  seem  to  agree 
with  whatever  he  said,  ancUbe  interested.  It  all  seemed 
tranquil  and  pleasant.  Great  sunlit  spaces  were  visible 
through  the  cavern's  opening.  A  kind  of  refined  light 
filled  the  cavern. 

Still,  Rosy  was  thinking  rather  doggedly  along  a  cer- 
tain line.  Paraphrasing  a  sentiment  from  The  Princess 
she  said:  "He  must  eat  or  he  will  die."  And  she  was 
trying  to  decide,  not  how  to  prepare  food  for  him,  but 
how  to  induce  him  to  eat  it  when  it  was  prepared. 

When  she  had  finished  peeling  and  coring  her  apples 
she  said:  "I  must  go  into  the  house  a  little  while.  May- 
be you  can  sleep?"  And  he  assented  drowsily. 

She  hurried  into  the  kitchen  and  put  the  apples  on 
to  stew;  and  then  she  went  out  into  the  yard  with  un- 
mistakable definiteness  of  purpose.  She  carried  a  hand- 
ful of  shelled  corn.  She  called  the  chickens  and  induced 
a  flock  of  them  to  enter  the  barn.  She  entered  after 
them,  closing  the  door  behind  her. 


ROSY  265 

There  was  a  great  outcry  among  the  fowls  presently; 
and  after  a  minute  or  two  she  emerged  from  the  barn 
with  a  hen  under  either  arm. 

She  hurried  away  in  the  direction  of  the  Felds';  and 
when  Jacob  Feld  saw  her  coming  he  smiled  as  one  does 
at  the  repetition  of  a  familiar,  pleasant  experience.  He 
knew  why  Rosy  was  coming  and  just  what  she  would 
say,  though  he  did  not  permit  her  to  know  that  he  antic- 
ipated her.  He  waited  for  her  to  state  her  case,  just 
as  if  he  did  not  know  what  she  would  say. 

"I  want  to  trade  you  a  couple  of  hens,"  she  said. 
"I've  got  to  kill  a  couple,  and  I  don't  want  to  kill  mine, 
you  know.  These  are  laying,  I'm  sure."  Indeed,  one 
of  them  was  singing  rather  faintly.  "I  thought  if  you 
had  two  that  are — that  have  got  mean  dispositions, 
you  might  trade.  It  seems  a  pity  to  kill  a  hen  that's 
laying;  and,  besides,  a  person  feels  almost  like  a  can- 
nibal, eating  their  own  chickens.  You  know  I  have 
had  these  ever  since  they — ever  since  they  were  eggs." 

He  took  the  two  hens  from  her,  his  face  puckered 
with  good  humor.  "I  think  I've  got  the  very  hens  you 
want,"  he  said.  "There's  two  that  have  found  a  dust- 
ing-place in  the  flower-bed.  They've  ruined  the  four- 
o'clocks  altogether."  He  looked  at  her  anxiously  to 
be  sure  that  these  strictures  constituted,  in  her  mind, 
a  sufficient  indictment. 

They  appeared  to  do  so;  for  she  said  promptly: 
"Well  ...  if  you'll  bring  them  to  me  when  you  can. 
One  at  a  time,  you  know.  I'd  like  to  have  the  first  one 
right  away,  and  the  other,  say,  day  after  to-morrow." 

She  hurried  home  then,  knowing  very  well  that  a 
hen  would  be  forthcoming  almost  in  no  time,  and  that 
it  would  be  all  ready  for  plucking. 

.  .  .  She  made  an  excellent  bowl  of  chicken  broth 
that  afternoon,  and  toward  six  o'clock  she  carried  it, 


266  ROSY 

steaming  in  a  most  appetizing  manner,  down  into  the 
cavern.  But  she  was  destined  to  receive  no  reward. 
Her  patient  behaved  most  disagreeably. 

"Will  you  take  that  stuff  away?"  he  demanded. 
"Didn't  I  tell  you  I  wouldn't  eat  anything?" 

She  grew  rigid  with  amazement  and  anger;  but  im- 
mediately she  reminded  herself  that  she  was  dealing 
with  an  invalid.  She  spoke  almost  humbly:  "But  you 
know  you  can't  go  without  eating!" 

"I  know  I'll  not  eat  anything  now!"  he  retorted. 

She  took  the  broth  away.  She  was  afraid  she  tossed 
her  head  slightly  as  she  disappeared.  But  she  took 
counsel  with  herself.  The  good  broth  must  be  put 
away  so  that  it  would  keep  until  the  next  day.  No  doubt 
her  patient  would  be  glad  to  have  it  then. 

But  it  developed  that  he  would  not  have  it  the  next 
day — neither  at  noon  nor  in  the  evening.  He  seemed 
to  be  placing  himself  under  restraint  as  he  said:  "You 
must  not  annoy  me  with  such  things.  I  am  sick ! "  And 
so  the  broth  had  to  be  thrown  away,  after  all.  It  would 
not  keep  until  another  day,  she  decided. 

This  was  the  more  disquieting,  since  her  patient  was 
certainly  not  mending.  He  suffered  less  from  high  tem- 
perature; but  his  energy  was  failing  in  the  most  alarm- 
ing manner.  By  the  third  day  the  slightest  movement 
seemed  to  overtax  him.  He  dozed  more  and  more;  and 
when  he  lay  awake  he  seemed  not  really  awake.  He 
lay  with  his  eyes  wide  open;  but  he  seemed  not  to  see. 
He  did  not  even  hear  her  when  she  spoke  to  him,  unless 
she  took  special  pains  to  attract  his  attention. 

And  so  the  second  hen  came  from  Jacob  Feld's  and 
was  made  into  such  a  bowl  of  broth  as  would  have 
brought  lions  in  out  of  a  forest.  But  again  the  imperious 
patient  waved  it  away.  He  even  whimpered  now.  She 
was  simply  trying  to  annoy  him,  he  said. 


ROSY  267 

She  stood  staring  at  him  in  alarm.  "Indeed,  I  am 
not,"  she  cried.  "If  you  would  only  eat  a  little!  I 
can't  bear  to  think  of  you  lying  here  starving.  And 
that's  what  you're  doing,  you  know!" 

He  would  not  relent.  "If  you  don't  stop  pestering 
me,"  he  said,  "I'll  get  up,  sick  as  I  am,  and  go  away. 
And  it  will  be  your  doing,  too ! " 

So,  sadly  and  silently  she  took  the  broth  back  into 
the  house.  She  put  it  away,  to  be  offered  again  the  next 
day.  But  on  the  next  day  she  went  about  the  matter 
in  a  different  fashion.  She  heated  the  broth  and  took 
it  to  the  cavern  about  noon.  "You're  to  eat  some  of 
this  broth,"  she  said  quietly.  She  did  not  give  him  an 
opportunity  to  reply.  "We'll  have  no  more  baby  busi- 
ness. You're  to  eat.  I'll  not  let  you  be  until  you've 
done  as  I  tell  you  to  do.  Two  spoonfuls! — that's  all 
I  ask  of  you.  But  that  much  you  shall  have  if  I  have 
to  sit  here  all  afternoon."  She  rilled  the  spoon  half  full 
and  held  it  toward  him  with  a  steady  hand.  "Come !" 
she  said. 

He  whimpered  helplessly.  "Well,  I  will,"  he  said. 
He  was  yielding  for  her  sake  rather  than  his  own — or 
he  was  yielding  in  the  hope  of  getting  rid  of  her 
importunities. 

She  put  the  broth  aside  long  enough  to  help  him  to 
lift  his  head.  She  half  rilled  the  spoon  again  and  held 
it  to  his  lips. 

He  swallowed  the  broth  perfunctorily;  but  imme- 
diately an  amazing  transformation  occurred.  A  delicious 
force  seemed  instantly  to  penetrate  his  whole  body.  He 
seemed  to  burn  with  a  beneficent  flame.  He  looked 
into  her  eyes,  pathetically  amazed.  "It  tastes  good!" 
he  said. 

She  gave  him  the  second  spoonful.  She  replaced  the 
spoon  in  the  bowl  and  let  it  remain  there. 


268  ROSY 

"More!  "he  said. 

But  she  shook  her  head  firmly.  "Not  now,"  she  de- 
clared. "At  supper- time  you  shall  have  a  good  deal 
more.  But  no  more  now." 

And  so  she  put  him  on  the  road  to  speedy  recovery. 

It  began  to  be  apparent  to  her,  however,  as  the  days 
passed,  that  he  was  not  completely  recovering,  as  she 
hoped  he  would  do.  Something  of  the  old  nervous  energy 
he  had  possessed  was  not  being  restored  to  him.  He 
found  it  easy  to  sit  for  hours  without  moving,  almost 
without  thinking.  Nature  had  adjusted  him  to  his 
environment,  to  his  necessities,  and  she  had  done  her 
work  completely.  Days  came  when  he  felt  a  desire  to 
explore  the  cavern  which  had  become  his  home,  and 
which  had  proved  to  be  almost  limitless  in  dimensions. 
He  had  found  it  possible  to  descend  from  his  own  level 
to  various  succeeding  levels,  through  corridors  and  cham- 
bers which  at  unexpected  turns  brought  him  to  new 
openings  in  the  face  of  the  mountain;  and  this  recrea- 
tion was  the  more  enticing  because  there  were  occasions 
when  he  seemed  to  be  hopelessly  lost,  and  long  moments 
of  patient  search  were  needed  to  find  the  way  by  which 
he  had  emerged  from  his  starting-point. 

Thus  something  of  his  bodily  vigor  was  restored  to 
him;  but  to  Rosy's  dismay  there  was  no  corresponding 
return  of  mental  vigor.  He  was  no  longer  rebellious. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  he  had  ceased  to  give  any  thought 
at  all  to  his  future.  He  had  undergone  some  sort  of 
dumb,  surrendering  process  which  she  could  not  under- 
stand. He  had  less  and  less  to  say  as  the  days  passed; 
and  when  he  spoke  it  was  to  utter  some  sentiment  of 
indifference  or  cynicism  or  bitterness. 

His  dull  mental  processes  began,  more  and  more,  to 
react  upon  the  girl  who  was  required,  so  much  of  the 


ROSY  269 

time,  to  be  his  companion.  She  found  it  increasingly 
difficult  to  be  cheerful,  to  seek  for  the  brighter  side  of 
things  for  bis  sake.  The  time  came  when  both  used  to 
sit  for  hours  at  a  time  without  uttering  a  word:  Rosy 
sewing  or  performing  such  of  her  kitchen  labors  as  she 
could  transfer  to  the  cavern;  the  man  reading  fitfully, 
or  dozing,  or  lying  with  his  head  propped  up  on  his  hand, 
gazing  dreamily  out  at  the  sky  and  the  valley. 

Rosy  had  recorded  an  unsuspected  growth  during 
the  past  few  months.  She  found  herself  summoning 
the  undeveloped  Rosy  of  yesterday  before  her  and 
putting  stern  and  searching  questions  to  her.  Why 
was  it  that  she  had  permitted  herself  to  become  involved 
in  problems  such  as  no  girl  had  ever  heard  of  before? 
She  could  now  see  clearly  the  full  significance  of  certain 
things  she  had  done.  She  had  afforded  shelter  to  a  draft- 
evader — and  that  was  a  crime.  Why  should  she  have 
been  led  so  easily  into  the  commission  of  that  crime? 

In  seeking  for  the  answer  to  that  question  she  ceased 
forever  to  be  altogether  the  primitive  creature  who  had 
found  the  mountain  creeds  all-sufficing.  Of  course  there 
was  something  to  be  said  for  that  unwritten  law  among 
the  mountain-folk  who  learn  the  lesson,  over  and  over 
again,  that  life  is  a  cruel  taskmaster,  and  that  the  number 
of  unmerited  sorrows  which  must  be  borne  is  sufficient, 
and  that  man-made  sufferings  are  a  superimposition 
which  have  their  basis  as  often  as  not  upon  narrow  and 
limited  intentions,  rather  than  upon  a  real  search  for 
equity.  She  might  still  argue  that  in  offering  her  hut 
as  a  refuge  to  the  man  who  sought  concealment — even 
though  she  had  known  the  whole  truth  as  to  his  motive 
— she  had  been  arraying  herself  against  the  powers  that 
prey  and  are  vengeful,  rather  than  against  those  which 
seek  to  cure  and  make  whole. 

But  now  she  was  able  to  grasp  the  fact  that  if  life 


27o  ROSY 

at  its  best  must  be  imperfectly  organized,  it  is  never- 
theless well  to  accept  those  forms  of  organization  which 
have  been  thought  out  with  earnestness  of  purpose, 
and  which  are  better,  at  least,  than  the  exercise  of  un- 
restricted individual  choice. 

Her  reflections  brought  her  to  the  new  attitude  in 
which  she  stood  toward  Jacob  Feld.  She  had  clearly 
involved  her  old  friend  in  a  problem  which  he  would 
certainly  have  avoided,  if  he  had  been  left  the  oppor- 
tunity to  choose.  Grave  injury  might  yet  come  to  him 
through  her,  try  as  she  might  to  shield  him.  How  could 
she  shield  him  if  Nat  Minturn  chose  some  day  to  tell 
the  whole  truth  ? 

And  there  was  yet  another  of  whom  she  thought  with 
dark  foreboding:  that  lover  who  would  come  back  from 
across  the  sea  some  day — who,  it  seemed,  might  now 
come  home  sooner  than  she  had  expected.  He  would 
come  and  look  into  her  face  and  into  her  heart  anew. 
He  would  require  much;  he  would  have  much  to  give. 
Should  she  be  able  to  face  him  with  unflinching  eyes? 
Could  she  hope  by  any  argument  to  convince  him  that 
she  had  done  well  in  hiding  one  who  had  been  unwilling 
to  perform  his  duty,  while  better  men  were  dying  for 
his  sake  ? 

Nanny  had  come  to  typify  to  her  the  highest  phase 
of  chivalry,  of  manly  honor.  She  had  begun  to  measure 
all  things  by  his  conduct,  by  his  standards.  What  could 
she  say  to  him  when  he  came  back  and  learned  what 
she  had  done? 

4  Unconsciously  she  had  begun  to  wear  a  new  spiritual 
garment  in  which  pride  was  the  warp  and  woof.  She 
had  been  proud  enough  in  days  past,  as  she  knew  very 
well:  proud  of  her  father's  good  reputation,  of  the  friend- 
ship of  the  Powells,  of  the  kindness  of  her  neighbors. 
But  all  this  was  as  nothing  compared  with  her  pride  in 


ROSY  271 

the  love  she  had  won  from  one  who  had  proved  himself 
a  brave  soldier — who  had  not  remained  at  home  to  speak 
evil  of  his  neighbors,  but  who  had  gone  in  response  to 
high  necessity  to  do  his  simple  duty.  She  must  not 
forget  that  his  honor  had  become  hers,  now — or  would 
become  hers  some  day — and  that  she  must  cherish  it 
in  all  that  she  did  or  thought. 

She  looked  up  from  her  sewing  and  realized  suddenly 
that  it  was  becoming  too  dark  for  her  to  sew  any  more. 
She  glanced  with  a  kind  of  reluctance  toward  the  bed. 
A  little  while  ago  her  patient  had  been  lying  in  a  com- 
fortably relaxed  position,  his  eyes  bent  upon  the  jagged 
expanse  of  sky  through  the  cavern's  mouth,  and  upon 
the  opaline  tints  which  warmed  the  sky-line  where  it 
touched  a  distant  forest.  But  now  he  was  asleep. 

She  tried  to  shake  off  the  thought  that  the  sight  of 
him  was  becoming  hateful  to  her.  She  said  to  herself, 
"He  is  ill";  but  her  other  self  retorted:  "He  is  no  longer 
ill."  She  realized  how  constantly  she  had  tried  to  mani- 
fest toward  him  as  much  kindness  as  might  not  be  mis- 
understood. But  it  had  come  to  pass  that  she  could 
not  look  at  him  without  thinking  of  her  own  misconduct, 
viewed  in  the  pitiless  light  of  a  man  with  a  soldier's 
courage,  a  lover's  jealousy. 

.  .  .  She  arose  and  made  her  escape  stealthily, 
eagerly.  She  went  into  the  house.  It  would  be  time 
to  prepare  supper  presently;  but  she  could  not  bear  to 
think  of  household  duties  now.  She  opened  her  front 
door  and  stood  looking  out  at  the  empty  road. 

Her  heart  urged  her  to  turn  toward  the  spring — 
toward  Jacob  Feld.  It  would  be  infinitely  restful  there, 
and  her  old  friend  would  have  something  to  say  to  her 
which  would  make  the  ills  of  the  day  seem  little  and 
far  removed.  Just  to  be  near  him,  if  they  said  nothing 


272  ROSY 

at  all,  would  help  her.  They  would  listen  to  the  trickle 
of  the  water  down  in  the  hidden  gorge;  there  would 
be  the  voices  of  birds  and  insects.  They  would  listen 
to  those  little  sounds  dreamily,  and  almost  get  their 
placid  messages.  The  mountain  had  become  a  place 
of  engulfing  loneliness. 

But  she  shook  her  head  resolutely.  For  his  own  sake 
she  must  not  permit  old  Jacob  to  come  any  nearer  to 
her  than  he  had  already  come.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
she  had  destroyed  the  innocence  of  their  old  relation- 
ship. She  turned  in  the  opposite  direction,  along  the 
shadowy  road,  wholly  deserted  and  infinitely  lonely. 
The  droning  voice  of  a  locust  accentuated  the  silence. 
She  had  no  hope — nor  any  fear — of  meeting  any  one. 
The  summit  was  now  wholly  deserted.  Even  the  bench, 
in  this  direction,  had  lost  the  last  of  its  tenants. 

A  little  way  around  the  bench  road  she  climbed  up 
a  steep  slope,  tempted  by  a  bush  weighted  and  dark 
with  wild  grapes.  She  gathered  a  quantity  of  the  grapes, 
tearing  off  long  sprays,  heavily  laden.  She  looked  away 
through  the  vista  of  trees,  toward  fragments  of  evening 
sky.  Her  eyes  were  dreamy  as  she  lifted  the  first  grapes 
to  her  lips. 

They  were  delicious.  She  had  not  known  how  she 
had  craved  them.  They  were  the  first  she  had  had  that 
year.  She  had  been  too  much  absorbed  by  other  things 
to  think  of  the  pleasures  which  had  always  meant  so 
much  to  her  during  the  days  of  her  girlhood,  which  now 
seemed  so  far  away,  though  they  had  ended  only  yester- 
day. 

She  retraced  her  steps  until  she  was  before  her  own 
yard — before  the  unfinished  wall  her  father  had  built. 
Again  she  climbed  a  little  way  up  the  slope,  but  this 
time  with  a  different  purpose.  She  meant  to  find  a  seat 
on  the  sun-warmed  Sphinx  Rock,  which  lifted  its  rugged 


ROSY  273 

head  away  from  the  main  structure  of  the  mountain 
as  if  it  were  listening  for  the  voice  of  eternity. 

She  was  seated  on  the  warm  rock  presently,  her  legs 
folded  before  her  like  those  of  a  heathen  goddess.  She 
was  pressing  the  purple  grapes  to  her  lips.  She  removed 
a  bronze-red  grape-leaf  from  the  stem  she  held  and  ad- 
justed it  dreamily  in  her  hair.  She  forgot  to  eat  from 
the  bunch  of  grapes  and  began  to  dream — as  if  she  had 
caught  the  spirit  of  the  rock  and  must  perforce  listen 
with  it.  She  held  the  grapes  in  her  hand  as  if  they  were 
a  symbol  of  something  that  life  had  in  store  for  her:  a 
wine  which  could  thrill  her  and  bring  new  laughter  to 
her  lips. 

The  voices  of  the  tiny  insects  of  the  mountain  became 
more  assertive.  No  longer  startled  by  human  feet  cer- 
tain shy  and  invisible  creatures  began  a  weirdly  rhythmic 
chant. 

Various  inhabitants  of  the  wild  began  to  move  about 
her.  A  lizard  with  jewels  for  eyes  and  a  lithe  back  ar- 
mored in  dusty  green  shot  up  the  rock  and  paused,  and 
shot  forward  again,  almost  at  her  feet.  A  squirrel 
bounded  from  limb  to  limb  over  her  head.  And  then 
.  .  .  she  felt  her  bosom  shaken  with  compassionate, 
emotional  laughter:  a  mother  opossum  crossed  the  road 
near  her.  The  purposeful  creature  bore  six  miniature 
opossums  on  her  back.  They  sat  in  two  rows,  three 
facing  the  other  three,  and  all  holding  tight  to  the  rough 
tail  which  was  thrust  backward  within  their  reach.  It 
was  all  like  a  newer  sort  of  ark,  bearing  a  degree  of  inno- 
cence that  knew  no  fear  of  flood — helpless  living  things 
that  were  assured  because  they  had  something  to  hold 
to.  ...  The  mother  opossum  disappeared  in  the  bushes, 
gone  on  her  way  in  quest  of  food  or  drink. 

And  then  the  song  of  the  insects  lost  its  rhythm  and 
there  was  a  scattering  away  of  all  living  creatures  save 


274  ROSY 

Rosy.  A  man's  tread  disturbed  the  stones  on  the  road 
and  a  moment  later  Jacob  Feld  appeared. 

He  saw  her  and  stood  looking  up  at  her.  He  was 
blushing  faintly,  and  smiling.  And  then,  without  wait- 
ing for  her  bidding — without  noting  her  prohibitive 
frown — he  climbed  the  slope  and  seated  himself  on  the 
rock  by  her  side. 

"You're  not  afraid,  then,  that  the  Sphinx  Rock  will 
fall  some  day?"  he  asked. 

"Not  until  its  time  comes,"  she  replied. 

He  seemed  to  accept  this  as  a  perfectly  logical  answer. 
"I  don't  know  as  I  could  name  anything  you're  afraid 
of,"  he  added. 

"I'm  beginning  to  be  afraid  of — of  many  things," 
she  declared.  She  said  no  more,  but  into  her  eyes  came 
images  of  the  things  she  feared;  and  he  caught  only  an 
impression  of  vague  distress,  without  guessing  quite 
what  she  had  in  mind.  He  had  no  doubt  that  she  was 
thinking  of  the  things  he  had  been  thinking  of.  And 
true  to  his  habit  he  put  aside  needless  words  and  said 
precisely  what  he  had  meant  to  say  when  he  sought 
her. 

"Rosy,"  he  began,  "now  that  he's  sick — "  He  turned 
his  eyes  away  from  her.  With  some  difficulty  he  con- 
tinued: "Now  that  he's  sick,  maybe  you'd  better  let 
me  take  him  home." 

She  gave  him  one  swift  glance  and  her  face  seemed 
to  harden — though  with  resolution,  perhaps,  rather 
than  resentment. 

The  critical  moment  had  come,  she  perceived.  Now 
or  never  she  must  save  her  old  friend  from  himself. 

When  she  did  not  reply  to  him  promptly  he  concluded 
that  she  was  dumb  because  of  embarrassment  or  in- 
ability to  decide.  He  added:  "I  could  take  him  to  his 
father,  you  know.  I  could  come  at  night  with  a  wagon. 


ROSY  275 

I  could  make  his  bed  in  the  wagon,  and  cover  him  up — 
and  take  him  home." 

He  could  not  at  all  understand  the  strange  light  which 
leaped  into  her  eyes.  And  he  was  dumbfounded  by  what 
she  did.  She  flung  the  wild  grapes  from  her  and  got 
to  her  feet.  "I'm  going  home,  Mr.  Feld,"  she  said. 
"And,  please  understand,  I've  got  no  idea  what  you're 
talking  about."  She  moved  a  little  way  apart  from  him 
and  paused  and  looked  back.  "You  understand,  don't 
you  ?  And,  Mr.  Feld — I  think  for  a  while  you  and  I  ought 
not  to  talk  to  each  other  any  more.  Not  until  .  .  ." 
She  seemed  unable  to  complete  that  sentence.  She 
went  half  sliding  and  half  running  down  the  slope;  and 
staring  after  her  in  pained  amazement,  old  Jacob  saw 
her  enter  her  house.  She  had  not  once  looked  back. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THERE  came  at  last  the  day  of  the  great  good  news 
for  Rosy. 

It  was  on  a  Saturday,  and  she  had  decided  that  she 
ought  to  go  into  Pisgah  in  the  afternoon  to  deliver  eggs. 
She  might  have  asked  Jacob  Feld  to  take  them  for  her, 
but  she  would  not  do  so. 

She  thought  it  might  be  fair  for  her  to  spend  as  much 
of  the  forenoon  as  possible  in  the  cavern;  and  she  took 
her  work  with  her  and  went  there  quite  early.  She  began 
to  sew;  and  it  might  have  seemed  that  she  had  not  a 
thought  save  those  which  had  to  do  with  the  work  in 
her  hands.  But  for  a  considerable  time  she  thought — as 
she  had  done  on  many  a  previous  occasion — of  the  great 
generosity  of  Jacob  Feld,  who  had  actually  proposed 
that  he  be  permitted  to  share  her  crime  with  her,  in 
order  that  she  might  be  relieved  of  a  grievous  burden. 
She  mused:  "He  would  have  taken  him  home,  if  I'd 
let  him!"  And  again  an  unfathomable  light  burned 
in  her  eyes.  She  could  not  be  grateful  enough  to  the 
old  man,  to  whom  trespasses  of  every  kind  were  abhor- 
rent, yet  who  had  offered  to  take  up  her  cross  with  her, 
and  lessen  her  load.  It  was  a  sort  of  gallantry  which 
had  very  deep  foundations,  she  thought.  And  it  pleased 
her  to  think  that  if  she  knew  men  who  were  afraid  to 
do  the  things  they  ought  to  do,  she  knew  a  greater 
number  who  were  not  to  be  frightened — who  thought 
of  what  was  right  in  a  broad  way,  and  not  of  what  was 
discreet  or  agreeable. 

She  realized  presently  that  her  companion  had  had 
almost  nothing  to  say  to  her  since  she  had  entered  the 

276 


ROSY  277 

cavern,  and  she  began  at  length  to  observe  him  curiously. 
She  could  see  that  he  had  something  on  his  mind.  He 
had  been  pacing  back  and  forth,  stopping  at  each  turn 
to  look  out  across  the  valley,  and  then  advancing  into 
the  cavern  moodily,  with  puckered  brows. 

She  pretended  not  to  notice  him;  but  when  at  length 
he  went  to  his  bed  and  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  it,  facing 
her  with  a  seemingly  definite  purpose,  she  let  her  sew- 
ing rest  on  her  lap  and  looked  at  him  encouragingly. 

"The  winter  will  be  coming  on  before  we  know  it," 
he  began. 

It  must  have  been  something  in  his  tone,  she  sup- 
posed, which  made  her  think  that  perhaps  he  had  come 
to  some  momentous  conclusion — perhaps  to  walk  forth 
from  the  cavern,  into  the  light  of  day,  to  accept  whatever 
fate  or  punishment  awaited  him.  And  in  a  flash  she 
realized  that  she  should  hardly  wish  to  restrain  him 
now.  That  soldier  in  France  ...  he  had  made  his 
quality  known,  now.  Surely  he  had  vindicated  him- 
self!  And  perhaps  his  work  as  a  soldier  was  finished. 
Even  if  the  letter  of  the  law  held  him  guilty  when  he 
came  back,  how  greatly  he  had  triumphed !  He  had 
done  all  that  he  could  do.  It  was  Minturn's  turn  to 
play  a  man's  part  now,  if  it  were  within  his  power  to 
do  so.  And  yet  ...  if  she  could  only  devise  some  way 
of  saving  Zeb  from  any  further  shame  or  punishment ! 
She  replied  to  Minturn's  remark 

"It's  not  very  far  off,"  she  assented. 

"And  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  spend  the  winter  here, 
too." 

She  pondered  for  a  moment.  "Something  may 
happen,  you  know,"  she  said  presently. 

He  shook  his  head.  "And  of  course  it  will  be  a  hun- 
dred times  worse  down  in  this  hole  in  winter  than  in 
summer." 


278  ROSY 

She  resumed  her  sewing.  He  didn't  mean  to  give 
himself  up,  then,  after  all.  "You'll  not  have  to  be  so 
careful  in  the  winter,"  she  said.  She  was  thinking  that 
she  could  almost  wish  she  knew  how  to  ask  him  to  go. 
But  she  could  not  do  that.  She  had  encouraged  him 
to  remain  as  long  as  he  could  be  of  use  to  her.  She  must 
be  hospitable  to  him  now  as  long  as  he  wished  to  re- 
main. She  glanced  at  him  and  continued:  "You  know 
what  a  difference  there  is  in  the  seasons — in  the  way 
people  live,  I  mean.  In  the  summer  you  seem  to  live 
in  the  world — to  be  a  part  of  the  world.  But  in  the 
winter  you  live  in  your  house,  and  you  seem  to  be  only  a 
part  of  your  house.  Your  life  is  your  own,  in  the  winter- 
time. You  are  more  alone."  She  turned  the  garment 
on  her  knee  and  examined  it  thoughtfully,  and  then 
she  continued:  "You'd  be  surprised  to  know  how  the 
mountain  has  changed  already.  The  people  are  all  gone. 
After  awhile  we  can  go  out  together,  after  dusk,  and 
look  for  wild  grapes.  And  persimmons;  they'll  be  ripe 
before  we  know  it.  And  nobody  will  see  us." 

She  thought  to  cheer  him,  but  she  perceived  that 
she  was  only  adding  to  his  perplexity.  He  shifted  his 
position  nervously,  looking  away  from  her  at  nothing. 
At  length  he  said  uneasily:  "We  used  to  talk  of  getting 
married,  Rosy!"  He  was  flushing  faintly. 

She  assumed  a  very  tranquil  manner.  "It  was  just 
idle  talk,"  she  said. 

She  was  surprised  by  the  note  of  relief  in  his  voice: 
"Yes,  that  was  it!"  He  pondered  a  moment  and  then 
added:  "Though  I  was  serious  enough  at  one  time,  Rosy. 
I  must  have  felt  that  I  owed  you  a  great  deal.  I  feel 
that  way  yet." 

"Yes?"  she  replied.  She  was  taking  long,  steady 
stitches;  and  he  did  not  know  that  a  burnished  light 
was  dancing  in  her  eyes. 


ROSY  279 

"And  you  seemed  so  lonesome,"  he  added. 

"I  suppose  so." 

"But  I  mean  to  pay  you  yet,  Rosy,  for  what  you've 
done  for  me.  I  shall  not  be  mean  about  it." 

Her  eyebrows  became  arched,  but  the  long  stitches 
were  not  disturbed.  "How  do  you  mean,  pay  me?'* 
she  asked  placidly. 

"It's  very  simple.  I've  had  my  board  and  lodging 
here.  I  can  send  you  money — some  day.  Of  course 
I  can't  promise  just  when." 

"You  needn't  promise  at  all,"  she  said,  rearranging 
the  garment  on  her  lap.  "I  can't  speak  very  plainly; 
but  if  you  owe  me  anything,  I  owe  you  something  too. 
Maybe  more  than  you  owe  me.  We'll  call  it — what 
do  they  say? — an  even  break.  But  you  mustn't  say 
anything  again  about  paying  me  money.  It  doesn't 
please  me  at  all." 

He  could  not  bring  his  eyes  to  rest  on  her  face  now. 
He  was  still  flushing  faintly.  "We  can  both  see  that 
it  never  would  have  done — now,"  he  continued. 

"Our — our  being  married?    No,  of  course  not." 

"But  you're  a  good  girl,  Rosy,  just  the  same.  You'll 
get  a  good  fellow  one  of  these  days.  He'll  be  a 
lucky  fellow,  too.  You've  got  a  world  of  common 
sense  .  .  ." 

She  waited,  and  then  ventured:  "Even  if  I've  got 
rather  plain  ways?" 

He  smiled  with  relief.  "And  you're  not  to  blame  for 
that — never  having  had  any  more  chances  than  you've 
had  .  .  .  but  I  haven't  offended  you,  have  I?" 

She  had  arisen  with  a  kind  of  ominous  stillness,  fold- 
ing her  sewing  and  pushing  back  her  chair. 

"Oh,  no !"  she  protested,  looking  to  see  that  her  sew- 
ing materials  were  intact.  "I  must  go  into  the  house, 
now.  That's  all.  I've  got  to  go  to  Pisgah  this  after- 


28o  ROSY 

noon  to  take  the  eggs.    I  must  do  certain  things  in  the 
house." 

He  stared  after  her  as  she  went  away.  He  thought: 
"She  is  disappointed,  poor  thing!" 

She  encountered  no  one  on  her  long  drive  down  the 
mountain  that  afternoon;  and  so  it  was  that  the  sight 
of  the  town,  prosperously  astir  on  the  chief  market-day 
of  the  week,  was  a  much  needed  relief  to  eyes  that  were 
becoming  accustomed  to  look  too  much  upon  solitude. 

She  proceeded  slowly  down  the  main  street,  lined  on 
either  side  with  vehicles,  in  search  of  an  opening  into 
which  she  could  drive.  The  afternoon  sun  flooded  the 
rural  scene,  metamorphosing  it  into  something  almost 
glorious.  There  were  many  homely  noises  up  and  down 
the  street.  There  were  men  and  women  ready  to  salute 
Rosy  as  she  proceeded  on  her  way.  She  nodded  and 
smiled  at  them,  and  continued  to  look  for  a  suitable 
stopping-place. 

And  finally,  when  she  had  stepped  from  her  seat  and 
made  her  way  to  the  sidewalk,  she  found  her  way  inter- 
cepted momentarily  by  persons  who  were  passing.  She 
heard  her  name  called,  and  she  recognized  a  number 
of  girls  with  whom  she  had  gone  to  school  long  ago. 

The  girls  looked  at  Rosy  as  if  from  a  new  angle.  They 
took  in  the  heavy  basket  she  carried  in  her  hand.  They 
were  inclined  to  be  kind,  yet  they  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  to  be  patronizing.  She  was  the  girl  from 
the  mountain,  the  poor  girl;  and  they  were  representa- 
tives of  their  world  of  fashion  and  wealth.  They  were 
dressed  rather  showily.  They  displayed  delicate  furs 
about  their  throats  and  smart  little  tailored  jackets. 
They  were  dressed  much  too  warmly  for  the  day.  They 
asked  Rosy  how  she  had  been  getting  along;  and  pres- 
ently there  was  an  interruption. 


ROSY  28x 

A  man  entered  the  group,  almost  with  an  effect  of 
forcing  his  way.  It  was  Mr.  Minturn;  and  he  was  stand- 
ing there,  putting  his  hand  out  to  Rosy. 

He  seemed  in  a  mood  quite  foreign  to  his  disposition. 
"Well,  Rosy,"  he  said,  "any  more  word  from  that  sol- 
dier son  of  mine?"  He  held  her  hand,  which  she  felt 
she  could  not  refuse  him,  and  went  on:  "That's  the 
sort  of  boy  to  have,  I  tell  them.  While  a  lot  of  others 
are  still  talking  about  going,  or  wondering  when  they'll 
have  to  go,  he's  over  there  in  the  thick  of  it.  I  tell  them 
if  they  were  all  like  my  boy  the  war  would  be  over  be- 
fore now." 

Rosy  had  been  trying  to  free  her  hand.  She  said 
uncomfortably:  "I  haven't  had  a  letter  lately."  They 
were  standing  in  front  of  Goldman's  dry-goods  store, 
and  she  sought  relief  by  seeming  to  be  much  taken  with 
a  wire  frame  clad  in  a  hideous  calico  dress.  She  knew 
that  a  group  of  persons  had  stopped  to  hear  what  she 
would  say  to  Mr.  Minturn — who  had  heard  his  boastful 
references  to  his  son. 

She  managed  to  slip  away  before  long.  The  post-" 
office  was  next  door,  and  she  made  a  pretext  of  being 
anxious  to  see  if  she  had  any  mail,  though  she  had  in- 
tended to  deliver  her  eggs  before  going  into  the  post- 
office.  Of  course,  she  had  meant  to  stop  into  the  post- 
office  later.  She  had  hoped  there  might  be  a  letter  for 
her;  and  the  service  to  Moab  had  been  discontinued. 

There  was  a  letter!  And  she  was  so  lost  in  specula- 
tion as  to  what  it  would  prove  to  contain,  and  in  her 
joy  at  receiving  it,  that  she  had  to  be  spoken  to  twice 
before  she  took  the  papers — quite  a  number  of  them — 
which  the  clerk  was  handing  out  to  her  through  his  little 
window. 

In  a  corner  of  the  post-office  where  she  might  be  com- 
paratively unobserved  she  opened  her  letter,  and  it 


282  ROSY 

seemed  to  her  that  the  whole  world  burst  into  song  as 
she  read  the  magic  lines: 

"I  am  back  in  the  States.    I  am  coming  to  Pisgah.    I 
am  coming  to  Moab." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THERE  were  other  brief  sentences  in  that  letter,  all  im- 
portant in  their  way,  but  the  words  which  were  stamped 
in  golden  letters  on  her  mind  were  /  am  back  in  the  States. 
I  am  coming  to  Pisgah.  I  am  coming  to  Moab.  They 
grew  enlarged  before  her  eyes  as  she  emerged  from  the 
post-office,  her  newspapers  under  her  arm,  her  basket 
in  her  hand. 

She  was  scarcely  aware  of  the  picture  which  Pisgah 
presented:  the  thronged  Main  Street,  with  its  vehicles 
wedged  on  either  side,  with  here  and  there  a  driver 
threading  his  way  along  the  intermediate  space,  just 
arriving,  it  might  be,  or  more  likely  setting  out  for  home. 
She  had  no  ears  for  the  cheerful,  homely  noises:  the 
whinnying  of  horses,  the  hailing  of  men  and  women 
by  other  men  and  women  across  crowded  spaces.  She 
scarcely  knew  that  the  sun  was  shining  brilliantly  and 
that  through  the  open  spaces  of  the  town  she  could  see, 
lying  clearly  outlined  and  blue  in  the  distance,  the  moun- 
tain where  her  home  was.  He  was  in  the  States  again, 
and  he  was  coming  home ! 

And  then  she  recalled  the  minor  sentences  in  his  letter: 
he  had  come  back  with  an  injured  comrade;  they  had 
both  been  discharged  from  the  hospital  at  the  same 
time.  And  he  had  promised  to  spend  a  few  days  with 
his  comrade  in  a  town  in  New  Hampshire  somewhere. 
There  would  be  a  few  days  to  spend  there  before  he 
should  turn  his  face  toward  home.  But  he  would  be 
with  her  soon;  certainly  before  the  end  of  another  week. 
And  then  they  would  talk  together  and  try  to  decide 
what  he  ought  to  do. 

283 


284  ROSY 

What  he  ought  to  do  ?  .  .  .  And  then  she  remembered 
that  he  would  be  coming  home,  as  he  went  away,  a  fugi- 
tive from  justice.  That,  very  likely,  was  what  he  meant. 
What  he  ought  to  do  ...  oh,  surely  he  ought  not  to 
be  required  to  do  anything  now !  He  had  done  enough ! 

Yet  her  conception  of  the  law  was  that  of  the  typical 
mountaineer — that  it  was  a  relentless  thing,  a  machine, 
taking  no  account  of  individual  merits,  but  pursuing 
its  way  blindly,  by  rule. 

She  scarcely  knew  how  she  transacted  the  rest  of  the 
business  which  had  brought  her  to  town,  or  how  she 
had  taken  her  place  hi  the  ramshackle  little  buggy,  and 
tightened  the  reins,  and  began  the  journey  home. 

She  was  well  up  the  mountain  before  she  really  re- 
gained control  of  herself;  and  then  it  came  to  her  that 
the  news  she  had  received,  joyful  news  that  it  was, 
brought  her  also  sudden  fearful  responsibilities.  There 
were  things  she  ought  to  do  before  he  came  to  her,  and 
stood  in  the  doorway  with  his  hand  stretched  out  to 
her,  ready  to  claim  her. 

She  ought  to  be  alone  in  that  hour;  and  not  seemingly 
alone,  but  really  so.  For  months  she  had  seemed  alone 
to  those  who  sought  her  in  her  house;  but  now  she  was 
saying  to  herself:  "When  he  comes  there  ought  to  be 
no  one  .  .  .  the  cavern  too  should  be  empty." 

Little  lines  gathered  in  her  forehead  as  she  ascended 
the  mountain.  Many  difficulties  were  presenting  them- 
selves. There  were  things  to  be  done — things  which 
it  would  be  almost  impossible  to  do,  it  seemed.  And 
yet  as  she  pondered,  troubled,  her  heart  never  quite 
ceased  to  sing;  and  above  the  chorus  of  perplexed 
thoughts  there  was  one  clear  voice  proclaiming:  "He 
is  coming  home — he  is  coming  back  to  me!" 

.  .  .  There  was  yet  a  little  daylight  left  when  she 
reached  home.  She  drove  the  horse  into  the  lot  and 


ROSY  285 

removed  the  harness  with  deft  fingers,  hanging  it  on 
its  peg  in  the  shed.  Her  whole  being  radiated  a  new 
vitality  as  she  entered  her  house. 

She  paused  just  inside  the  door,  startled,  because 
there  was  movement  of  some  sort  in  the  kitchen.  She 
heard  the  rattle  of  the  stove-lid.  "Are  you  there?" 
she  called  out  sharply. 

There  was  a  reassuring  response:  "I  knew  you'd 
be  tired  after  your  long  drive.  I'm  only  making  the 
fire."  Minturn  appeared  in  the  doorway,  the  stove- 
lifter  in  his  hand,  a  streak  of  soot  across  his  face.  No 
one  would  have  taken  him  for  an  invalid  now.  Even 
his  habitual  lassitude  seemed  to  have  passed.  His  face 
was  lean,  but  there  was  a  faint  tinge  of  color  in  his  cheeks. 
"You  know  I  ought  to  do  a  little  something  to  help, 
Rosy,"  he  said,  with  a  degree  of  humility  which  she 
had  long  missed  in  him. 

"I'm  glad  you  made  the  fire,"  she  said  cheerfully. 
"I'm  glad  you  felt  you  needn't  be  afraid  to  come  into 
the  house,  too.  I  don't  see  that  you  need  to  stay  out 
there  all  the  time  now."  She  moved  her  head  vaguely 
to  indicate  the  old  well. 

They  were  quite  cheerful  as  they  sat  down  to  supper, 
though  each  realized  that  a  final  estrangement  had  taken 
place  between  them — that  they  were  farther  apart  than 
they  had  ever  been  before.  Rosy  had  her  own  jubilant 
thoughts  which  she  jealously  guarded;  and  as  it  hap- 
pened, Minturn,  too,  was  thinking  darkly,  yet  not  with- 
out hope,  of  his  future,  and  of  a  plan  which  he  had  never 
yet  put  into  words. 

He  sat  down  by  the  light  after  supper  and  opened 
the  newspapers  which  Rosy  had  brought  up  from  Pis- 
gah.  He  opened  them  all  and  straightened  them  out 
before  he  settled  down  to  read;  and  he  noted  that  in 


286  ROSY 

addition  to  copies  of  the  Pisgah  Argus  there  was  a  Little 
Rock  paper  which  hadn't  that  fresh  appearance  of  a 
newspaper  which  comes  direct  from  a  publishing  plant. 
It  had  been  read  before.  He  examined  it.  The  name 
of  Judge  Powell  was  scribbled  along  one  of  its  margins. 
And  then  he  noted  that  a  certain  item  had  been  sur- 
rounded by  a  pencilled  line. 

He  read,  at  first  idly,  and  then  with  extraordinary 
eagerness.  He  dashed  all  the  papers  from  his  lap  and 
leaped  to  his  feet.  "Rosy !"  he  cried,  "Rosy !" 

She  had  been  stealthily  reading  her  letter  again,  in 
the  kitchen.  She  appeared  almost  guiltily  in  the  door- 
way. She  could  not  think  what  could  have  brought  that 
eager  light  to  Minturn's  eyes.  He  was  fairly  dancing. 
"It's  come,  Rosy!"  he  cried,  "the  end  is  in  sight!" 

She  drew  closer  to  him,  looking  at  him  wonderingry. 
He  was  a  changed  being.  He  seemed  a  radiant,  manly 
fellow.  And  then  he  began  to  explain. 

"Rosy,"  he  said,  "Nanny  is  back."  He  pointed  to 
the  newspapers  on  the  floor.  "It's  in  the  Little  Rock 
paper.  He's  among  the  arrivals  on  a  ship  that's  landed 
at  New  York." 

"Well?"  she  asked,  a  little  blankly. 

"Well  .  .  .  it's  NatMinturn  that's  back,  you  know!" 

She  began  to  frown  delicately.  "What  do  you  mean, 
Nat?"  she  asked. 

He  was  smiling  nervously.  "Look  here,  Rosy,"  he 
said,  "suppose  I  were  to  walk  into  my  father's  house. 
Not  to-night,  you  know;  but  say  in  a  day  or  two  from 
now.  What  would  it  mean?  Why,  that  I  had  come 
back  from  the  war.  Nobody  need  to  know  exactly  how 
I  got  home.  I'd  come  home  quietly.  That's  how  it 
would  be  reported.  That  would  be  the  end  of  it." 

"But  you're  not  wounded,"  said  Rosy,  with  a  singular 
lack  of  enthusiasm. 


ROSY  287 

"The  newspapers  get  things  wrong  as  often  as  not. 
I  could  say  I  hadn't  really  lost  an  arm.  It  needn't  be 
supposed  that  I'd  have  to  show  my  wounds  or  scars 
to  everybody." 

She  was  leaning  against  the  door-casing,  plucking  at 
her  lower  lip  and  looking  at  the  floor.  Presently  she 
lifted  her  glance  a  little  blankly.  "And — and  Zeb?" 
she  asked  in  a  lifeless  tone. 

"Perfectly  simple,  Rosy,"  he  said.  "We  must  reach 
Zeb — you  must.  You  must  tell  him  not  to  come  home. 
He'll  hardly  dare  come  anyhow.  But  that's  not  all. 
Here's  the  good  part.  I'm  going  to  help  him.  If  he'll 
agree  not  to  come  back,  and  never  to  let  anybody  know 
.  .  .  you  know  what  I've  in  mind,  Rosy !  I'll  make 
everything  right  for  him.  I'll  put  it  in  writing.  I'll 
take  my  oath.  I'll  do  whatever  is  necessary  to  make 
it  certain  I  can't  go  back  on  my  promise.  And  I'll  make 
him  rich — really  rich — when  the  tune  comes.  And  in 
the  meanwhile  I'll  send  him  money;  all  I  can  get  hold 
of.  My  father'll  not  be  mean,  now.  And  I'll  work  if 
it's  necessary.  Don't  you  see,  Rosy?  It'll  be  the  mak- 
ing of  Zeb.  It  will  save  him  as  well  as  me ! " 

A  silence  fell  between  them;  and  during  that  silence 
Minturn  realized  that  somehow  he  had  blundered.  Rosy 
was  looking  at  him  intently.  Her  color  was  coming 
and  going.  And  finally  her  eyes  began  to  blaze;  her 
arms  contracted,  her  fingers  closed.  She  was  trying 
to  speak;  and  when  she  could  shape  her  thoughts  her 
voice  was  a  tense  whisper. 

"Nat!"  she  began,  "Nat— don't!  Don't  make  me 
hate  myself  as  well  as  you.  Let  me  go  on  believing,  if 
I  can,  that  I  helped  a  poor  creature  who  was  unfortunate 
—not  one  that  was  too  low  for  any  one's  contempt." 
She  paused  an  instant,  breathing  deeply,  and  then  she 
continued:  "Oh,  you — you  .  .  .  to  think  that  you  could 


288  ROSY 

see  a  good  man  abused  and  forsaken,  and  want  to  trade 
on  his  misfortune!  To  think  that  you  are  willing  to 
let  him  pay  the  price,  while  you — while  you  are  willing 
to  carry  home  the  bacon  for  yourself!"  In  that  moment 
she  couldn't  think  of  any  less  inelegant  form  in  which 
to  express  her  thought.  "To  think  that  he's  gone  half- 
way around  the  world,  among  strangers,  to  help  stop 
injustice — and  one  of  his  boyhood  friends  should  be  willing 
to  rob  him  here  at  home!  Oh,  shame!  shame!"  She 
lifted  her  hands  to  her  cheeks  to  keep  her  face  from 
trembling.  Tears  hung  on  her  lashes,  but  she  had  no 
time  to  weep.  Her  rage  arose  to  a  higher  pitch.  "Do 
you  think  because  he's  always  had  to  work  for  every- 
thing he  got  that  he's  the  kind  of  a  man  you  can  buy? 
Is  that  what  it's  done  for  you — your  having  more  than 
any  other  boy  within  a  dozen  miles  of  Pisgah  ?  Has  it 
made  you  think  that  you  can  go  to  market  and  buy  a 
Zeb  Nanny  to  suit  your  whim  ?  Keep  him  away  ?  No, 
I'll  not — and  you'll  not.  He's  coming  home.  He's 
coming  here.  He's  coming  up  the  mountain,  for  all 
the  laws  in  the  land.  Let  the  laws  go !  He's  coming, 
and  he'll  be  a  hero,  and  he  shall  have  a  wreath  like  any 
other  hero,  if  there's  none  but  me  to  put  it  on  his  head ! " 

She  turned  and  leaned  against  the  door-casing,  hiding 
her  face  on  her  arms. 

Minturn  stood  staring  at  her  in  amazement.  ' '  Rosy ! ' ' 
he  murmured,  "Rosy!" 

She  paid  no  attention  to  him.  After  a  moment  she 
went  back  into  the  kitchen.  He  sat  down  and  gathered 
up  the  scattered  newspapers.  He  tried  to  shake  off  the 
effect  of  Rosy's  denunciation,  to  regain  the  conviction 
that  his  mind  worked  more  accurately  than  hers.  It 
was  to  be  expected  that  a  woman  would  become  the 
victim,  occasionally,  of  emotional  storms.  What  he 
had  suggested  was  merely  a  matter  of  simple  common 


ROSY  289 

sense.    It  wasn't  as  if  he  had  been  to  blame  for  Nanny's 
misfortune. 

He  clung  to  that  thought.  That  was  the  gist  of  the 
matter.  Little  by  little  he  regained  his  composure  com- 
pletely. He  even  worked  his  problem  out  to  a  satis- 
factory conclusion — without  reference  to  Rosy's  aid. 
He  would  wait  until  Zeb  came.  Zeb  would  come 
stealthily,  in  all  probability.  And  he  would  lay  his 
plan  before  Zeb,  who  would  see  the  great  advantages 
he  could  reap  from  it.  Yes,  that  was  the  proper  thing 
to  do.  He  would  watch  secretly  for  Zeb.  He  would 
say  nothing  more  to  Rosy. 

And  Rosy,  sitting  at  her  kitchen-table  at  that  moment, 
her  smouldering  eyes  staring  at  nothing,  suddenly  sat 
up  with  perfect  erectness.  Her  hands  came  together 
ecstatically.  She  had  thought  of  the  great  solution. 
The  solution  had  come  to  her  with  a  name  which  was 
flashed  into  her  consciousness  in  a  really  uncanny  manner. 
The  name  was  that  of  Judge  Powell — and  she  couldn't 
have  told  to  save  her  life  what  had  made  her  think  of 
that  name  just  at  that  moment.  But  she  drew  a  deep 
breath  and  whispered  to  herself:  "Oh,  how  could  I 
have  been  so  stupid  as  not  to  have  thought  of  it  be- 
fore!" 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE  solution  of  Rosy's  problem  involved  a  trip  to 
Little  Rock,  which  she  decided  to  make  the  very  next 
day.  Now  that  she  knew  what  to  do  she  felt  that  there 
wasn't  a  moment  to  be  lost  in  the  doing  of  it. 

She  arose  from  her  place  at  the  table  and  looked  about 
her  ponderingly.  There  were  a  good  many  things  to 
be  done  in  preparation  for  that  trip.  She  must  see  that 
Minturn  had  food  provided  for  him  while  she  was  gone. 
She  would  have  to  be  gone  a  day  and  a  night  and  the 
greater  part  of  the  next  day.  He  would  object  to  her 
going  for  so  long  a  time — but  she  couldn't  help  that. 

She  went  into  the  other  room,  where  Nat  sat  by  the 
light  in  a  sprawling  posture,  lost  in  the  perusal  of  the 
newspapers. 

"I've  something  rather  surprising  to  tell  you,"  she 
said.  She  tried  to  speak  as  if  there  had  been  no  dis- 
agreeable words  between  them. 

He  put  his  newspaper  aside  and  looked  at  her  with 
only  the  faintest  show  of  interest. 

"I'm  going  to  make  a  trip  to  the  Rock,"  she  said. 
Then,  because  he  seemed  so  woodenly  indifferent,  she 
feared  she  might  lose  her  temper  again;  and  she  turned 
and  went  back  into  the  kitchen,  intending  to  decide 
what  food  she  would  have  to  prepare  before  she  should 
be  able  to  go  away.  She  knew  that  Nat  was  lan- 
guidly following  after  her,  but  she  turned  to  her  work- 
table  and  to  certain  parcels  which  she  had  brought  up 
from  Pisgah.  She  wondered  why  it  was  that  nothing 
ever  seemed  to  arouse  him,  why  the  things  which  meant 

290 


ROSY  291 

much  to  her  should  mean  nothing  to  him.  She  con- 
tinued: "You  know  I've  never  been  there,  though  I've 
friends  -who've  often  asked  me  to  come.  I'm  going  to- 
morrow and  I'm  not  coming  back  until  the  day  after. 
You'll  be  able  to  get  along  that  long,  won't  you?" 

He  replied  spiritlessly:  "What  you  going  to  the  Rock 
for?  ...  I'll  have  to  get  along,  I  suppose." 

She  felt  her  antagonism  to  him  rising  again.  What 
a  mean  creature  he  was,  to  be  sure,  that  he  could  speak 
and  behave  as  if  he  had  not  just  betrayed  the  greatest 
baseness!  "I  can't  tell  you  what  I'm  going  for,"  she 
said,  "  though  you  needn't  fear  it's  anything  concerning 
you.  It  isn't." 

He  smiled  faintly,  derisively.  "Going  to  the  Rock 
to  sell  eggs?"  he  asked. 

She  did  not  reply  to  this.  She  soon  ceased  to  think 
of  him.  She  put  away  the  delicacies  she  had  bought  for 
him,  without  any  regret  that  she  had  been  a  little  ex- 
travagant in  buying  them.  She  began  to  sing  softly, 
dreamily,  in  a  broken  fashion.  She  worked  vigorously 
and  steadily  for  two  hours,  stocking  the  cupboard  with 
food  for  him.  She  was  aglow  with  energy  and  happiness. 

She  hoped  he  would  go  away  to  his  bed  in  the  cavern 
before  she  had  finished  her  work  in  the  kitchen,  but  he 
did  not  do  so.  And  then  she  decided  that  it  did  not 
matter  whether  he  went  or  remained. 

She  went  into  the  other  room,  seeming  not  to  know 
that  he  regarded  her  with  an  idly  speculative  glance. 
She  got  out  various  garments  and  looked  at  one  and 
then  another.  She  emptied  the  grass  suitcase  which 
her  father  had  bought  years  ago  on  an  occasion  when 
he  was  going  down  to  Little  Rock.  She  inverted  it  and 
thumped  upon  it  vigorously. 

The  noise  seemed  to  arouse  her  guest  anew.  "What 
are  you  doing  now,  Rosy?"  he  asked. 


292  ROSY 

She  was  down  on  her  knees,  and  her  cheeks  were 
pinker  than  usual  from  exertion  and  excitement.  "I'm 
getting  ready  to  go  to  the  Rock,"  she  said,  leaning  back 
on  her  heels  and  regarding  him  impatiently.  "  Didn't 
you  understand?  I'm  going  to  the  Rock  to-morrow." 

He  flushed  dully.  "Oh — and  you're  packing.  Ex- 
cuse me,  Rosy — I  didn't  understand."  He  seemed  then 
really  to  try  to  interest  himself  in  his  newspapers. 

She  thought:  "He  couldn't  always  have  been  so  stupid 
as  that."  It  occurred  to  her  that  perhaps  even  yet  she 
did  not  realize  quite  what  a  trying  experience  it  was  that 
he  had  been  passing  through.  Her  mind  was  divided 
between  impatience  and  compassion.  She  asked  her- 
self: "What  does  a  woman  do  when  she  marries,  and 
finds  she  has  got  to  go  through  life — always — with  a  man 
who  gets  to  acting  like  a  stick,  and  sits  around  talking 
stupidly  ?  She'd  be  required  to  spend  his  money  as  fast 
as  he  made  it,  so  he'd  have  to  keep  at  work  all  the  time." 

Then  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  had  not  thought 
how  she  should  get  to  Pisgah  in  the  morning.  If  she 
drove  her  own  horse,  how  should  she  get  it  back  ?  And 
yet  she  couldn't  walk  down  the  mountain,  carrying  her 
suitcase.  She  should  want  to  get  to  Little  Rock  look- 
ing her  best.  Moreover,  the  thought  of  the  horse  in- 
troduced a  new  difficulty.  Who  would  feed  and  water 
the  horse— yes,  and  the  chickens — during  her  absence? 

Her  purposeful  manner  deserted  her.  Her  body  re- 
laxed; her  hands  fell  idly  to  her  sides.  She  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  life  was  an  extremely  complicated 
affair.  And  then  she  thought  of  Jacob  Feld  again — as 
she  always  did  when  difficulties  overtook  her.  And 
her  eyes  beamed  again.  She  could  call  upon  Jacob  Feld 
— and  he  would  be  running  no  risk  at  all  in  serving  her 
in  this  instance. 

She  went  to  find  him  immediately;  and  when  he  saw 


ROSY  293 

her  through  the  gloom  (he  was  sitting  on  his  front  porch, 
smoking  his  pipe)  he  came  forward  to  meet  her. 

"Well,  Rosy?"  he  began;  and  it  removed  a  great 
load  from  her  heart  to  hear  him  speak  in  the  old  familiar 
way — as  if  nothing  at  all  had  happened.  She  thought 
how  surprised  he  would  be  when  she  told  him  she  meant 
to  make  a  trip  to  the  Rock. 

Still,  he  did  not  exclaim  when  she  told  him  the  great 
news.  He  only  said  quietly:  "And  you  wanted  me  to 
drive  you  down  to  Pisgah,  maybe — no?" 

"Yes,  I  wanted  to  ask  you  to  do  that — and  another 
thing  too.  I  thought  maybe  you'd  feed  for  me  while 
I'm  gone.  You  know  there'll  be  nobody  for  me  to  leave 
at  all."  She  spoke  almost  sharply  as  she  uttered  the 
last  words.  She  also  looked  at  him  in  what  she  conceived 
to  be  a  really  bold  manner,  but  it  was  too  dark  for  him 
to  see  this. 

"I'll  do  that  too,"  he  replied.  He  spoke  in  a  perfectly 
matter-of-fact  tone. 

"I'll  be  ready  early,"  she  went  on.  "I  want  to  leave 
on  the  noon  train.  Can  you  manage  that?" 

"Yes,  Rosy,"  he  said  tranquilly.  "That  won't  be 
no  trouble  at  all." 

When  she  awoke  the  next  morning  rapture  clothed 
her  like  a  shining  garment.  She  was  wide-awake  all 
over  the  moment  she  first  opened  her  eyes.  It  seemed 
that  her  very  body  rejoiced  that  it  was  alive.  It  was 
as  if  the  world  had  been  newly  created,  for  her.  She 
was  about  to  enter  upon  a  great  adventure,  and  she 
knew  she  had  the  courage  and  the  eagerness  with  which 
all  great  adventures  should  be  faced. 

When  she  had  dressed — her  every  movement  express- 
ing a  new  intensity  of  feeling — she  went  to  the  door 
and  opened  it,  as  if  to  verify  the  impression  that  the 


294  ROSY 

world  was  wonderful  and  perfect  in  every  one  of  its  in- 
finite details.  The  sun  seemed  to  greet  her  as  one  chosen. 
The  forest  about  her  seemed  to  exclaim,  "Ah — ha!" — 
as  if  the  very  trees  knew  that  her  great  day  had  come. 
The  Sphinx  Rock  might  have  seemed  to  be  pondering 
this  morning  on  her  affairs,  which  had  suddenly  attained 
the  highest  plane  they  had  ever  known. 

She  felt  a  kind  of  freedom  which  was  new  to  her.  It 
is  true  that  she  had  been  quite  free  while  her  parents 
were  yet  living — but  she  had  lacked  wings  then.  To 
go  entirely  around  the  bench,  or  to  climb  to  the  summit 
— these  were  long  flights.  To  go  to  Pisgah  perhaps  a 
dozen  times  a  year — what  more  could  she  have  dreamed 
of?  To  her  Pisgah  had  represented  the  great  world, 
since  it  had  marked  the  limits  of  her  knowledge. 

But  now  she  was  going  to  pass  through  Pisgah,  just 
as  those  visitors  to  the  summit  had  done  all  these  years. 
She  was  going  to  touch  Pisgah  only  as  one  touches  the 
stones  of  a  ford;  and  when  she  had  crossed  her  ford 
she  should  look  back  triumphantly,  and  then  the  great 
flight  would  really  begin.  There  would  be  trains  to 
travel  on;  there  would  be  strange  faces  to  see,  strange 
voices  to  hear.  And  at  the  end  of  it  all  there  would  be 
Little  Rock,  and  Judge  Powell  and  Mrs.  Powell  in  their 
home,  and  her  extraordinary  mission  in  which  she  was 
to  determine  the  very  destinies  of  human  souls. 

.  .  .  Jacob  Feld  did  not  wait  for  her  to  come.  He 
drove  up  to  her  door.  He  had  timed  his  arrival  just 
right.  Rosy  was  nervously  thrusting  a  pin  into  her  hat 
when  she  heard  him  call  "Whoa!"  to  his  horses;  and 
she  emerged  from  her  door  immediately,  closing  it  be- 
hind her  and  locking  it  with  a  certain  ostentation,  as 
if  she  were  saying:  "The  house  is  empty  now." 

She  handed  her  suitcase  to  her  old  friend  and  climbed 
up  beside  him.  She  glanced  at  him  furtively  as  he  tucked 


ROSY  295 

the  lap-robe  about  her.  She  felt  sorry  that  certain  bar- 
riers had  arisen  between  them.  She  felt  that  they  were 
of  her  own  making,  in  part — not  of  his;  though  the 
most  insurmountable  of  them  all  was  to  be  attributed 
to  powers  beyond  both  of  them — greater  than  both  of 
them.  She  wished  to  correct  the  impression  she  had 
made  when  she  declared  they  ought  not  to  talk  to  each 
other  any  more;  but  she  did  not  mention  the  matter 
because  she  knew  very  well  that  he  would  not  remember 
her  words  against  her. 

There  were  moments  when  she  could  not  help  thinking 
forlornly  of  the  evil  complication  in  which  her  life  had 
become  involved.  Jacob  Feld  knew  what  it  "was  that 
she  had  done  and  she  wished  she  could  know  just  what 
he  thought  about  it.  She  imagined — or  perceived — 
that  he  seemed  to  believe  there  was  a  certain  humor  in 
the  situation.  And  she  could  not  help  resenting  this. 

She  decided  to  be  on  her  guard  constantly  as  to  their 
conversation  as  they  drove  down  the  mountain;  but 
it  soon  appeared  that  there  was  no  need  for  her  to  do 
so.  It  was  clear  that  Feld  did  not  intend  to  become  at 
all  confidential.  He  spoke  of  the  most  general  things.' 
He  did  not  seem  disposed  to  talk  very  much  about  any- 
thing. He  seemed  to  wait  for  her  to  speak,  if  she  wished 
to  do  so,  prepared  to  listen  without  interruption.  She 
became  quite  at  ease  before  long.  After  all,  there  was 
no  need  of  communication  between  two  very  good  friends. 
The  rapture  of  the  earlier  hours  of  the  morning  returned 
to  her,  though  perhaps  in  a  more  subdued  form. 

She  made  nothing  at  all  of  the  fact  that  they  were  in 
Pisgah,  along  toward  noon.  She  had  already  caught 
the  glow  of  wider  horizons;  and  when  he  asked  her  if 
she  had  any  business  to  attend  to  there  she  calmly  re- 
plied that  she  had  not.  She  looked  down  the  street 
almost  disinterestedly  when  he  checked  his  horses  to 


296  ROSY 

be  sure  of  what  she  wished  to  do;  and  then  they  drove 
down  the  incline  between  gullied  banks,  onto  the  pon- 
toon bridge  which  spanned  the  Arkansas.  She  had 
never  crossed  the  bridge  before;  and  she  felt  that  under 
ordinary  circumstances  it  would  have  been  an  epoch- 
marking  event  to  watch  while  the  long  series  of  barges, 
one  after  another,  passed  behind  them,  to  the  tune  of 
constant  jolts  as  the  wheels  passed  over  the  connecting 
spaces. 

Her  eyes  became  fixed  on  the  little  station  on  the  far 
side  of  the  river,  where  a  tiny  engine,  linked  to  a  single 
passenger-coach  and  a  baggage-car,  already  emitted 
smoke  and  steam  as  proof  that  it  was  fully  prepared 
for  its  journey.  The  narrow-gauge  line  was  only  five 
miles  long;  and  at  its  terminus  was  the  station  through 
which  the  express-trains  ran  to  the  city. 

The  little  engine  emitted  a  greater  quantity  of  steam, 
and  Rosy  was  thrilled  by  the  unfamiliar  sound.  She 
felt  it  was  highly  improbable  that  the  engine  would 
wait  for  her — though  Jacob  Feld  assured  her  that  it 
would  not  stir  until  the  Pisgah  coach  came  over;  and 
that  vehicle  he  had  seen  standing  before  the  Pisgah 
hotel,  waiting,  when  he  crossed  the  river. 

They  drove  up  to  the  platform  and  stopped;  and 
then  Rosy  realized  with  a  pang  that  the  time  of  com- 
radeship was  over  and  that  from  now  on  she  must 
travel  alone.  She  took  her  old  friend's  hand  in  parting, 
and  almost  involuntarily  she  said,  as  if  she  were  proffer- 
ing a  form  of  thanks:  "You  know,  I'm  going  down  to 
the  Rock  to  try  .  .  .  because  I  want  to — to  make  some- 
thing right  that  isn't  right  now." 

She  concluded  almost  helplessly;  but  old  Feld  nodded 
reassuringly.  "I  know  you're  going  to  do  as  near  right 
as  anybody  could,  Rosy,"  he  said. 

She  did  not  fully  realize  what  she  said  or  did  during 


ROSY  297 

the  next  moment  or  two;  but  presently  she  knew  that 
Feld  was  driving  back  across  the  pontoon  bridge  and 
that  she  was  standing  on  the  little  platform  alone. 

Negroes  were  unloading  bales  of  cotton  near  by,  and 
shouting  when  their  horses  stirred.  Already  she  had 
reached  a  point  where  the  world's  work  was  going  on. 
She  said  to  herself,  "I  am  a  traveller!"  and  she  did 
not  mind  being  rather  conspicuous  as  she  stood  on  the 
platform  when  the  Pisgah  coach  rumbled  up  to  the 
station  presently. 

There  was  a  moment  of  excitement  almost  too  great 
to  be  borne  when  she  went  aboard  the  passenger-coach 
and  took  her  seat  and  drew  her  suitcase  close  to  her,  so 
that  she  should  take  up  as  little  room  as  possible.  She 
could  scarcely  repress  her  wish  to  talk  to  some  one — 
to  any  one — when  the  bell  clanged  a  time  or  two  and 
the  train  began  to  move.  But  certain  native  qualities 
stood  her  in  good  stead,  and  she  attracted  only  passing 
attention  from  the  other  passengers  as  she  looked  out 
of  the  window,  hiding  her  widening  eyes  from  those 
who  looked  at  her. 

She  seemed  to  have  entered  still  deeper  waters  at 
the  junction,  where  she  left  the  miniature  train  with  its 
miniature  engine  and  stood  waiting  with  the  others 
until  the  great  express  came  rushing  into  the  station. 
And  then  she  found  herself,  with  the  others,  in  a  greater 
coach,  indescribably  handsome  for  all  the  dust  it  had 
gathered,  sitting  among  persons  who  were  strange  to 
her,  not  only  by  chance  but  by  the  set  design  of  long 
generations  of  development.  She  saw  women  whose 
dresses  were  costly  but  whose  faces  were  blank  with 
tedium.  And  she  could  not  help  thinking  that  this  show 
of  weariness  must  be  in  part  affectation.  To  her  these 
new  experiences  were  comparable  only  to  riding  in  the 
sky  in  a  golden  chariot. 


298  ROSY 

She  listened  with  hidden  eagerness  and  profound  bliss 
to  the  murmuring  voices  around  her;  voices  employing 
a  language  which  was  oddly  different  from  her  own,  and 
intonations  which  were  more  skilful  and  strange  than 
the  words  themselves.  These  were  people  of  the  great 
world,  which  had  always  been  far  away  from  her.  She 
occasionally  tried  to  catch  the  expression  in  these  per- 
sons' faces — with  much  the  same  feeling  of  awe  a  poor 
astronomer  might  experience  in  looking  for  the  first 
time  through  a  great  telescope. 

She  was  supremely  happy.  She  felt  that  she  should 
like  the  journey  to  last  forever.  She  could  not  under- 
stand the  eagerness  with  which  those  other  persons 
greeted  the  announcement,  late  in  the  afternoon,  that 
Little  Rock  would  be  the  next  stop.  There  was  a  sudden 
awakening.  The  porter  appeared  with  a  brush  in  his 
hand.  A  powerful  voice  made  an  awe-inspiring  procla- 
mation: certain  persons  were  to  change  cars,  the  voice 
said,  for  Memphis,  St.  Louis,  Texarkana,  Dallas,  Fort 
Worth — there  were  many  other  names.  The  voice  re- 
peated the  proclamation,  which  died  away  finally  to 
the  sound  of  a  door  being  banged  to.  And  Rosy  thought: 
"Some  of  these  people  will  go  to  Memphis,  and  some  to 
St.  Louis,  and  some  to  other  places,  and  they  will  never 
ride  on  the  same  train  again."  It  seemed  to  her  a  solemn 
thing  to  contemplate. 

She  got  up,  agitated,  fearful  that  she  should  be  un- 
prepared to  do  her  part;  but  when  she  realized  that 
the  train  was  still  thundering  along  at  a  high  rate  of 
speed  she  sat  down  again,  tensely  waiting.  But  she 
did  not  again  let  go  of  her  suitcase. 

The  train  was  crossing  a  bridge !  The  waters  swirled 
far  below  her  against  the  breakwater.  There  were  other 
bridges  up  and  down  the  river,  incomparable  structures, 
miracles.  And  after  a  while  there  was  a  sudden  lurching 


ROSY  299 

of  the  coach,  and  then  a  cessation  of  movement,  and 
the  travellers  began  to  file  out  of  the  car. 

Through  the  coach-window  she  could  see,  high  above 
her,  a  street  where  a  maze  of  cabs  and  other  vehicles 
moved  to  and  fro,  where  a  great  clamor  of  sound  arose, 
where  activities  of  strange,  countless  kinds  formed  a 
chaos  into  which  it  would  have  seemed  quite  fatal  for 
any  one  to  enter. 

Persons  coming  behind  her  in  the  coach  waited  for 
her  to  lift  her  suitcase  into  the  aisle  after  her.  She 
moved  resolutely  along  toward  the  exit. 


CHAPTER  XXXH 

ROSY'S  first  impression  of  the  city  was  that  it  was 
a  splendid,  benevolent  force,  moving  in  her  direction 
to  render  homage  and  service.  In  company  with  a  score 
of  other  passengers  she  was  swept  away  from  the  train- 
yards  and  up  a  flight  of  steps  to  a  region  of  platforms 
and  exits;  and  when  she  had  extricated  herself  from 
the  tangle  of  strangers  in  which  she  had  been  caught 
for  the  tune  being,  she  paused  just  an  instant  in  inde- 
cision. Joyous  greetings  were  taking  place  all  about 
her.  There  were  friends  to  meet  some  of  those  other 
passengers;  there  were  aged  women  with  white  hair 
and  shining  eyes,  and  children  who  waited  eagerly  to 
be  greeted  after  their  elders  had  been  greeted.  It  seemed 
to  Rosy  that  travelling  must  be,  on  a  small  scale  at  least, 
like  going  to  heaven:  a  period  during  which  grudges 
and  frailties  were  forgot,  and  perfect  kindness  reigned. 

And  then  she  found  herself  confronted  by  a  man  in 
uniform  who  seemed  to  have  been  waiting  for  her  and 
for  no  one  else. 

She  addressed  him  with  perfect  confidence.  "I  have 
come  to  see  Judge  Powell,"  she  said.  "Will  you  tell 
me  where  he  lives?" 

She  did  not  consider  it  at  all  remarkable  that  the  man 
in  uniform  knew,  without  stopping  to  think,  just  where 
Judge  Powell  lived.  He  turned  partly  round  and  pointed. 
"You  go  to  that  corner  there  and  take  a  South  Main 
Street  car,"  he  said.  He  went  with  her  a  little  way  along 
the  platform.  He  repeated  his  instructions,  still  point- 
ing. 


ROSY  301 

And  when  she  had  reached  the  corner  which  he  had 
pointed  out  to  her  she  came  upon  another  man  in  uni- 
form. She  had  made  a  mental  note  of  the  words  "South 
Main  Street,"  and  she  asked  this  other  man  in  uniform, 
"Do  I  get  the  South  Main  Street  car  here?"  and  the 
officer  seemed  beamingly  grateful  to  her  for  asking  him. 
He  seemed  to  take  complete  possession  of  her.  He  said: 
"Yes,  miss."  And  looking  toward  a  distant  corner  he 
announced  cheerfully:  "Your  car's  coming  now."  And 
he  took  her  suitcase  and  moved  with  her  toward  her 
car  a  moment  later,  and  helped  her  to  the  platform,  and 
placed  her  suitcase  at  her  feet. 

She  did  not  forget  to  thank  him;  and  yet  it  all  seemed 
to  her  quite  what  she  might  have  expected.  She  did 
not  know  how  much  of  her  story  was  written  in  her 
shining  eyes  and  blooming  cheeks,  nor  how  entirely 
lovely  she  was. 

She  addressed  herself  to  the  conductor  now.  "Will 
you  let  me  off  at  Judge  Powell's  house?"  she  asked; 
and  she  deposited  her  fare  in  a  box,  as  she  saw  other 
passengers  doing.  Again  she  saw  nothing  remarkable 
in  the  fact  that  one  to  whom  she  applied  should  know 
where  Judge  Powell  lived. 

"You  get  off  at  Gaines  Street,"  said  the  conductor; 
and  in  response  to  a  momentary  obscurity  of  expression 
in  her  eyes,  he  added:  "I'll  let  you  know."  And  she 
took  her  seat  near  the  conductor,  and  held  her  suit- 
case in  her  lap,  and  managed  to  keep  the  conductor  in 
mind,  and  in  the  range  of  her  vision,  too,  without  quite 
seeming  to  do  either. 

Twenty  minutes  later  she  perceived  that  the  conductor 
meant  to  speak  to  her.  She  turned  friendly,  almost 
beaming,  eyes  upon  him,  and  he  said:  "The  next  stop's 
yours.  You  go  in  that  direction."  He  jerked  his  thumb. 
"Judge  Powell  lives  in  the  next  block."  He  cogitated 


302  ROSY 

an  instant,  and  then  he  told  her  in  which  house  from 
the  corner  the  judge  lived.  And  she  said  "Thank  you " 
again,  and  was  quite  unconscious  that  she  was  being 
served  in  a  really  exceptional  manner. 

She  stopped  involuntarily  and  drew  her  breath  rather 
sharply  when  she  reached  the  house  which  had  been 
designated  to  her  as  the  judge's.  Perhaps  for  an  in- 
stant she  was  really  overawed.  Something  like  surprise 
was  the  sensation  of  which  she  was  aware;  and  she  stood 
in  her  place  a  moment  trying  to  adjust  her  mind  anew 
before  proceeding. 

It  was  not  because  the  house  was  quite  large  and 
elegant.  She  would  not  have  expected  to  find  that  Judge 
Powell  lived  in  a  mean  house.  Its  roominess  and  quality 
were  simply  in  harmony  with  his  character.  But  there 
was  a  sort  of  severity,  a  quality  of  exclusion,  an  aloof- 
ness, which  she  could  not  reconcile  with  the  man  who 
viewed  life  so  kindly.  The  echo  of  some  long-forgotten 
legend  of  sophistication  came  back  to  her.  City-folk 
who  might  be  ever  so  gracious  when  they  met  you  in 
the  country  were  likely  to  stare  at  you  and  pretend  to 
have  forgotten  you  completely  if  they  encountered  you 
on  their  own  ground. 

But  she  put  aside  this  thought  almost  before  it  was 
definitely  shaped.  The  Powells  were  not  that  kind  of 
people.  Somewhere  in  that  impressive  structure,  with 
its  round  corner  tower  topped  by  a  sort  of  fool's  cap 
of  red  tiles,  there  was  a  room,  she  knew,  in  which  Judge 
Powell  would  insist  upon  being  himself,  no  matter  how 
he  might  alter  his  bearing  to  harmonize  with  the  other 
rooms.  Possibly  he  might  pretend,  in  every  room  but 
one.  But  in  that  one  room,  she  knew,  he  would  look 
up  at  her — if  she  could  find  him  there — and  say,  "Well, 
Rosy!"  and  make  a  place  for  her  to  sit  down  by  him, 


ROSY  303 

and  be  so  easy-going  that  she  shouldn't  think  of  fearing 
him.  He  would  have  a  room  where  he  might  entertain 
people  who  could  not  feel  comfortably  at  home  in  any 
other  part  of  the  house.  She  was  sure  of  it. 

She  paused  only  long  enough  to  get  the  picture  of 
closed  windows  and  drawn  blinds,  between  magnolia- 
trees  and  under  the  lofty  boughs  of  ancient  elms;  and 
then  she  advanced  along  the  brick  walk,  through  rows 
of  chrysanthemums  just  coming  into  bloom,  and  up  to 
the  steps  of  the  white  portico. 

She  was  still  hopeful  that  a  window  would  be  raised 
and  that  Mrs.  Powell  would  make  herself  visible.  But 
the  house  might  have  been  deserted  for  all  the  evidences 
of  life  there  were  to  be  discerned  from  the  outside.  There 
was  one  dark  moment  when  she  asked  herself  if  the 
family  were  away  from  home,  and  what  she  should  do 
if  no  one  came  to  let  her  in.  And  then  she  looked  at 
the  immense  door,  with  its  scrollwork  and  glass,  and 
wondered  how  one  was  to  knock  on  such  a  door.  The 
simple  panels  of  the  doors  to  which  she  was  accustomed 
were  not  in  evidence.  But  as  she  looked,  a  small  wooden 
appurtenance  with  concentric  circles  and  with  a  white 
disk  in  the  centre  met  her  searching  eyes,  and  common 
sense  told  her  that  it  was  certainly  there  to  be  touched. 
She  was  confirmed  in  this  belief  by  the  fact  that  the 
white  disk  gave  when  she  touched  it;  and  she  waited 
in  a  condition  of  pleased  suspense  to  see  what  would 
happen. 

The  door  was  opened  presently;  and  Rosy's  pleased, 
smiling  face  was  met  by  another  face:  that  of  a  girl 
of  her  own  age,  perhaps,  who  made  her  think  somehow 
of  the  poor  Minturn  girls,  since  she  looked  at  her  with 
an  effect  of  scarcely  seeing  her.  She  wore  an  apron; 
but  there  were  no  other  tokens  of  homeliness  about 
her — and  even  the  apron  was  much  too  small  and  neat  to 


3o4  ROSY 

suggest  household  toil.  She  looked  at  Rosy  as  if  a  door- 
way was  merely  a  place  through  which  questions  were 
to  be  asked  and  answered — and  not  by  any  means  a 
place  of  entrance. 

"I  want  to  see  Mrs.  Powell/'  said  Rosy;  and  there 
was  a  quality  in  her  voice  which  seemed  to  convey  a 
definite  fact  to  the  girl  in  the  apron. 

"Will  you  come  in?"  she  asked;  and  when  she  had 
closed  the  door,  after  Rosy  had  entered,  she  added: 
"What  is  the  name,  please?"  And  a  moment  later 
Rosy  was  standing  in  the  dim  afternoon  light  of  the  re- 
ception-hall, with  vague  vistas  of  strange  objects  about 
her,  and  a  harmony  of  soft,  rich  colors  in  her  eyes, 
and  a  kind  of  subtle  perfume  in  her  nostrils. 

She  had  been  told  to  be  seated;  but  for  the  moment 
she  would  not  venture  toward  a  chair.  She  grasped 
the  fact  that  a  rug  of  a  texture  like  fine  grass  was  be- 
neath her  feet  and  that  there  were  spaces  where  the 
floor,  like  a  mirror,  was  bare.  And  there  was  a  fireplace 
and  a  stairway  with  dim,  delicately  colored  light  filter- 
ing down  toward  her;  and  a  vast,  shadowy  room  to  her 
left,  with  articles  of  furniture  which  possessed  a  strange 
glow  and  fragility  and  curved  outlines.  But  strangest 
of  all  was  the  silence:  a  dream-like  absence  of  sound 
which  made  this  room  and  the  others  seem  like  a  glade 
in  fairy-land — a  place  where  mortal  might  enter  only 
to  intrude. 

And  then  there  was  a  soft  rustle  of  sound  and  a  move- 
ment on  the  stairway,  and  in  the  next  instant  Rosy 
heard  a  joyful  voice  exclaiming:  "Why,  Rosy — dear 
child ! "  And  then  she  knew  that  Mrs.  Powell  was  stand- 
ing close  to  her,  and  seizing  both  her  hands  and  beam- 
ing upon  her  with  a  lovely  friendliness  which  could  not 
have  been  mistaken  any  more  than  sunshine  can  be 
mistaken. 


ROSY  305 

They  went  up  a  flight  of  stairs  together;  and  Rosy 
realized  that  she  was  getting  into  a  region  of  more  light, 
and  a  diminished  silence,  and  of  furniture  which  seemed 
somehow  less  like  a  fastidious  amateur's  collection.  A 
dog  appeared  in  a  doorway — an  overgrown  young  collie 
•which  had  been  admitted  to  the  house  at  last  to  succeed 
another  dog  that  had  grown  old  and  died.  It  mani- 
fested no  excitement,  despite  its  youth,  but  straightened 
its  hind  legs  while  it  reached  far  out  with  its  fore  paws, 
with  a  downward  sweep  of  its  silken  body,  and  yawned. 
Then  it  looked  at  Rosy  lazily  and  with  a  tentative  in- 
terest, bringing  its  fore  paws  back  to  the  perpendicular. 

It  seemed  that  it  was  on  this  floor  that  the  family 
really  lived,  save  at  meal-times  and  on  special  occasions. 
Mrs.  Powell  ushered  Rosy  into  a  room  that  seemed  al- 
most to  be  smiling  with  tranquil  joy,  and  led  her  to  an 
engulfing  soft  chair  by  an  open  window  with  a  long  elm 
bough  swaying  outside. 

"It's  so  good  to  see  you  here,"  she  said,  adjusting 
a  blind  and  choosing  a  seat  for  herself.  She  looked  at 
Rosy  smilingly  and  with  only  a  hint  in  her  manner  to 
indicate  that  she  wondered  why  the  guest  had  come 
without  letting  them  know.  She  thought  of  something 
to  say — about  what  she  had  been  doing  when  Rosy 
came,  perhaps.  It  was  something  pleasantly  trivial — 
like  the  music  of  an  orchestra  before  the  first  word  of 
the  play  is  spoken. 

Rosy  adopted  a  perfectly  frank  course  when  the  pre- 
lude of  reassuring  words  was  finished.  "I  have  come 
to  see  the  judge,"  she  said.  "There  was  something  I 
had  to  decide — and  a  certain  trouble  I  was  in  ...  I 
wanted  to  talk  to  him  and  get  him  to  tell  me  what  I 
ought  to  do  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Powell  was  silent  only  long  enough  to  indicate 
that  she  had  listened  attentively,  and  then  she  nodded. 


3o6  ROSY 

"Of  course  you  would  want  to  tell  the  judge,"  she  said. 
"Every  one  feels  that  the  judge  is  a  great  hand  to  tell 
things  to."  She  continued  to  smile  invitingly;  and 
she  put  from  her  the  inclination  to  speak  further.  She 
wished  Rosy  to  know  that  she  was  interested  in  what 
she  had  to  say,  and  perpared  to  receive  it  sympatheti- 
cally. She  knew  how  to  make  her  silences  reassuring; 
and  she  simply  waited,  though  she  wished  much  to  lessen 
the  difficulties  of  the  girl  who  confronted  her,  and  who 
seemed  at  a  loss  just  where  to  look  or  how  to  begin  the 
communication  she  had  to  make. 

"I  could  have  spoken  to  him  when  he  was  up  on  the 
mountain,"  began  Rosy,  "only " 

And  then  there  was  a  spirited  bit  of  drama  enacted 
between  them.  There  was  a  sound  out  in  the  street, 
and  in  response  to  a  deeper  gleam  in  Mrs.  Powell's  eyes, 
Rosy,  comprehending,  asked  eagerly: 

"Is  it  ...  ?" 

And  Mrs.  Powell  replied:  "Yes,  it's  the  judge,  coming 
home  now." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

IT  seemed  quite  a  different  house  to  Rosy  after  Judge 
Powell  came  into  it.  There  had  been  a  certain  mur- 
muring sound  of  his  motor  as  the  chauffeur  stopped 
before  the  house  to  let  him  out.  And  then  he  came  into 
the  house  with  an  effect  of  dispelling  the  silence  and 
emptiness — its  air  of  waiting — and  there  was  the  sound 
of  his  feet  on  the  stairs.  For  so  quiet  a  man  it  seemed 
really  remarkable  what  an  influence  he  exerted. 

He  manifested  only  a  slight  surprise  at  seeing  Rosy, 
but  rather  a  frank  delight;  and  if  he  glanced  at  Mrs. 
Powell  with  a  quick,  unspoken  inquiry,  Rosy  knew 
nothing  of  it.  He  had  a  hundred  things  to  say  to  Rosy — 
questions  to  ask  her — and  if  she  had  been  self-conscious 
she  was  not  so  any  longer.  It  was  like  old  times  to  have 
the  judge  talking  to  her.  She  answered  his  questions 
gayly,  with  unaffected  delight. 

She  could  not  think  where  the  tune  had  gone  when 
a  servant  came  to  announce  dinner.  She  walked  by 
the  judge's  side  as  they  went  down-stairs;  and  she  now 
discovered  why  there  was  that  lower  floor  to  the  house. 
Its  atmosphere  had  changed.  A  different  door  had 
been  opened,  and  while  she  was  still  at  a  distance  she 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  rather  large  table,  snowy  with 
fine  linen,  and  brilliant  with  crystal  and  silver  which 
caught  the  rays  of  the  electric  light.  There  were  other 
pieces  of  furniture  which  possessed  the  same  quality 
of  remoteness  which  she  had  remarked  in  the  furniture 
of  other  rooms  on  this  lower  floor;  a  degree  of  lustre 
to  which  she  was  not  accustomed,  and  delicacy  of  out- 
line; but  these  things  had  no  power  to  make  her  feel 


308  ROSY 

strange  now.  She  was  mainly  conscious  of  nothing  but 
the  judge's  voice  and  beaming  glances. 

"It's  just  like  having  a  dream  come  true,"  the  judge 
said.  He  was  adjusting  the  chair  to  his  right  and  guid- 
ing Rosy  to  it.  "Do  your  dreams  ever  come  true,  Rosy  ? 
I've  said  to  myself  many  a  time:  'Some  day  Rosy  will 
come  to  see  us,  and  she'll  sit  here  by  my  side.' ' 

Rosy  replied:  "Yes,  my  best  dreams  always  come 
true."  Her  color  deepened  and  for  a  moment  she  could 
look  at  neither  her  hos-t  nor  her  hostess.  She  wished  she 
might  tell  them  now  of  the  best  dream  of  all  which  had 
come  true;  but  she  was  checked,  for  the  moment  at 
least,  by  the  appearance  of  a  young  woman  who  wore 
an  apron,  just  as  the  girl  did  who  had  let  her  into  the 
house  that  afternoon.  But  this  was  a  different  one;  and 
Rosy  thought  this  one  was  even  more  like  the  Minturn 
girls  than  the  other  had  been,  since  this  one  seemed 
actually  not  to  see  you  at  all,  but  moved  to  your  side 
as  if  she  were  on  casters,  and  held  a  dish  while  you 
helped  yourself. 

There  was  an  interval  after  a  while  during  which  the 
girl  in  the  apron  was  invisible.  She  had  gone  out  into 
the  kitchen  and  closed  the  door  behind  her.  And  Rosy 
felt  that  the  atmosphere  had  changed  in  some  subtle 
manner.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Powell's  voice  held  a  different 
note.  She  realized  that  they  were  all  talking  just  as 
freely  as  they  should  have  done  if  they  had  been  sitting 
on  the  hotel  veranda  up  on  Moab — or  as  they  had  done 
on  her  father's  porch  in  those  summers  which  would 
never  come  again. 

She  reflected  presently:  "But  neither  of  them  has 
asked  me,  'But  why  have  you  come,  Rosy?'  "  and  she 
wished  she  could  make  an  opportunity  to  tell  them  that 
she  was  to  be  married.  She  wished  to  have  that  part 
of  her  communication  over  and  done  with  before  the 


ROSY  309 

time  came  for  her  to  speak  to  the  judge  of — of  the  serious 
subject  which  she  had  come  to  talk  to  him  about.  She 
had  been  subconsciously  staging  her  secret  hour  with 
the  judge,  and  shrinking  from  it,  and  anticipating  dif- 
ficulties which  were  not  at  all  likely  to  arise,  and  asking 
herself  what  opportunity  she  should  be  afforded  to  tell 
the  judge  what  she  had  to  tell  him,  with  no  one  else  to 
hear. 

"I  couldn't  put  off  coming  to  see  you  any  longer," 
she  said  presently,  as  if  a  question  had  existed,  even  if 
no  one  had  asked  it.  "Because  it  may  be  even  more 
difficult  after  a  while.  You  see,  I — I'm  to  be  married 
before  long." 

She  paused  and  observed  the  judge  with  expectant 
eyes,  knowing  that  he  would  be  surprised,  and  perhaps 
pleased. 

He  was  surprised,  certainly.  He  leaned  back  in  his 
chair  and  regarded  her  almost  incredulously.  And  after 
an  interval  of  silence,  "God  bless  my  soul!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "Is  that  true?" 

Rosy  could  scarcely  have  realized  what  an  amazing 
announcement  this  would  prove  to  her  host  and  hostess. 
She  was  smiling  happily,  almost  mischievously.  "Do 
you  remember  the  news  you  told  me  once  as  we  were 
riding  up  the  mountain,  about  the  American  boy  who 
had  been  wounded  in  France — a  neighbor  of  mine?" 
she  asked.  She  glanced  at  Mrs.  Powell,  wondering^if 
she  could  follow,  without  having  the  circumstances 
all  repeated.  "I'm  to  many  him,"  she  added. 

The  judge  seemed  to  be  saying  to  himself:  "What  a 
precocious  child  she  is!"  He  continued  to  regard  her 
intently,  almost  dreamily.  He  seemed  unable  to  grasp 
the  entire  situation.  He  had  always  regarded  Rosy  as 
a  big,  fine  girl  who  couldn't  as  yet  have  anything  to  do 
with  the  affairs  and  moods  of  a  grown  woman. 


3io  ROSY 

It  was  for  Mrs.  Powell,  perhaps,  that  the  moment 
held  the  greatest  difficulties.  She  was  confronted,  it 
seemed,  with  the  need  of  being  instantly  agreeable — 
and  yet  of  withholding  her  approval  until  she  knew 
more.  She  began,  as  if  she  had  no  thought  of  misgiving: 
"We  hadn't  the  slightest  inkling!  .  .  .  Well,  well! 
Now  tell  us  all  about  it,  Rosy."  She  was  thinking: 
"Let  us  see  if  this  is  to  be  permitted." 

But  almost  immediately  she  perceived  that  even  if 
it  should  seem  advisable  to  interfere,  interference  would 
be  futile.  Rosy  was  like  a  young  queen  who,  coming 
unexpectedly  into  her  kingdom,  has  nevertheless  begun 
to  rule  with  authority  and  assurance.  She  told  of  the 
lover  who  had  won  her,  and  how  he  had  done  so.  She 
related  simple  matters  with*a  quiet  rapture — as  if  the 
story  she  was  telling  had  never  been  told  before. 

Moreover,  to  her  listeners  it  seemed,  as  she  proceeded, 
a  good  story,  which  needed  no  abridgment — no  altera- 
tion at  all. 

A  dreamy  silence  fell  when  she  had  finished;  a  little 
period  which  held  tranquillity  and  every  hope.  They 
might  all  have  been  back  on  Moab,  among  things  eternal 
and  unfretted.  The  judge  was  the  first  to  speak,  and 
his  voice  seemed  to  come  back  from  far  away  when  he 
said:  "Bless  my  soul — a  soldier,  back  from  the  war." 
And  he  turned  toward  his  wife  and  added:  "Do  you 
remember,  my  dear,  where  I  had  just  come  back  from, 
when  I  came  courting  you?" 

She  replied:  "From  Appomattox  Court  House."  And 
then  another  silence  fell. 

There  was  occasion  to  summon  the  young  woman 
from  the  kitchen,  then;  and  a  brisker  mood  began  to 
prevail.  Mrs.  Powell  had  offered  up  a  little  silent  prayer 
of  thanks  because  the  judge  seemed,  in  the  end,  really 
happy  because  of  what  Rosy  had  told  them.  She  knew 
that  elderly  men  seldom  have  the  slightest  idea  what 


ROSY  311 

is  in  the  mind  of  a  woman-child  of  eighteen,  and  she 
feared  he  would  not  at  all  comprehend  what  had  taken 
place.  But  he  had  done  so,  and  with  a  good  grace. 
Nevertheless,  she  realized  that  she  herself  was  regard- 
ing Rosy  from  a  new  angle — as  if  she  had  not  quite  clearly 
seen  her  before.  She  was  thinking  how  well  the  child 
appeared  under  circumstances  which  must  be  in  a  large 
degree  strange  to  her.  She  was  so  far  from  being  ill 
at  ease,  or  awkward.  "She  has  learned  to  be  deft  in 
the  hard  life  she  has  lived,"  she  thought,  "and  after 
all,  what  is  niceness  but  deftness  in  another  place?" 

Rosy  did  not  know  what  chance  Mrs.  Powell  had  had 
to  speak  a  private  word  to  the  judge;  but  that  she  must 
have  done  so  was  obvious  from  the  judge's  action  after 
dinner.  He  said,  "Now,  Rosy!"  a  little  crisply;  and 
led  the  way  out  into  the  hall;  and  Rosy  understood 
by  a  glance  from  Mrs.  Powell  that  she  was  to  follow  him. 
She  was  rejoiced  that,  after  all,  she  was  to  have  a  private 
word  with  the  judge  without  asking  for  it.  There  really 
was  something  in  what  she  had  to  say  that  no  one  but 
the  judge — not  even  Mrs.  Powell — must  hear. 

Almost  before  she  knew  it  the  time  had  come  for  her 
to  speak — and  now  she  wished  that  she  might  have 
postponed  that  hour  for  just  a  little  while.  She  realized 
that  the  world  might  have  changed  for  her,  after  she 
had  spoken.  She  was  sitting  in  an  upholstered  chair, 
in  a  room  all  surrounded  by  books,  which  exerted  a  most 
solemn  influence.  The  steel  engravings  on  the  wall, 
in  severe  frames,  seemed  also  like  an  inimical  influence. 
The  judge  was  occupying  a  chair  rather  farther  away 
from  her  than  she  could  have  wished.  For  a  moment 
there  was  something  strangely  detached  in  his  manner — 
an  air  of  profound  impartiality  which  seemed  almost 
dreadful  to  Rosy. 

Still,  when  he  began  to  smile  pleasantly,  she  felt  that 


3i2  ROSY 

.  •< 

she  should  rather  he  would  not  do  so.  She  began  with 
an  effort,  with  a  note  almost  imperious  in  her  voice: 
"I  wish  you  wouldn't  smile  now,  Judge.  It's  something 
very  serious  I  have  to  say  to  you.  And  I  shouldn't  want 
you  to  say  Yes,  when  you've  heard  me  out,  just  because 
we've  always  been  friends.  It  may  seem  something 
wrong  to  you,  and  I  should  want  you  to  say  No,  if  you 
felt  you  ought  to." 

He  sat  with  his  finger-tips  pressed  together  in  an  en- 
tirely judicial  manner.  And  if  he  did  not  quite  banish 
the  beam  from  his  eyes,  it  at  least  ceased  to  concern 
Rosy,  since  he  sat  with  lowered  head,  listening.  "Very 
well,  Rosy,"  he  said.  "Suppose  you  tell  me  now  what 
it  is." 

She  came  to  the  point  promptly.  "I  want  to  see  if 
it's  possible  to  get  a  pardon  for  a  man  who's  a  convict," 
she  said. 

A  subtle  change  took  place  in  the  judge's  manner. 
Again  he  had  the  awakening  thought  that  he  was  not 
dealing  with  a  child,  who  must  be  supposed  to  think 
only  of  childish  things,  but  with  a  woman  whose  life 
had  already  begun  to  reach  out  into  deep  places,  per- 
haps forbidden  places. 

She  continued,  speaking  with  difficulty.  "And  that 
isn't  the  worst  of  it.  The  man  is  not  only  a  convict 
but  he  is  an  escaped  convict.  He  ran  away  from  his 
punishment.  They  have  never  been  able  to  find 
him." 

The  judge  was  frowning.  He  began:  "Such  a  case 
...  it  would  seem  altogether  unprecedented,  I  should 
think.  Go  on,  Rosy." 

She  continued,  with  a  tremor  in  her  voice  now:  "  But, 
Judge,  it's  God's  truth  that  Zeb  Nanny- 
He  looked  up  at  her  sharply.  "Is  Nanny  the  man? " 
he  asked;  and  Rosy  could  not  understand  why  he  should 


ROSY  313 

have  seemed  relieved,  as  if  already  her  request  had  begun 
to  assume  a  different  aspect. 

She  replied:  "Yes,  Judge.  Do  you  remember  hear- 
ing about  him  ?  " 

"I  have  heard  of  him — yes.  I  know  a  good  deal  about 
his  case.  On  the  mountain  last  summer  .  .  .  there 
was  a  gentleman  who  knew  all  about  it.  We  discussed 
it  one  night." 

"He  was  never  given  a  square  deal,  Judge.  They 
had  robbed  his  father;  and  Zeb  wasn't  the  kind  that 
could  sit  back  and  let  a  wrong  be  done  without  fighting. 
He  fought  back — that's  all  he  did.  In  the  only  way  he 
could.  And  so,  after  they  had  robbed  his  father,  they 
sent  Zeb  to  the  penitentiary." 

The  judge  nodded.  "That's  substantially  the  way 
the  matter  was  presented  to  me,"  he  said.  When  Rosy 
did  not  continue  immediately  he  added:  "I  don't  mind 
saying  that  after  I  came  back  home  I  looked  into  the 
case.  I  had  the  records  examined.  And  I  was  convinced 
that  young  Nanny  was  perhaps  the  first  man  who  had 
ever  committed  a  theft  technically,  without  being  in 
the  slightest  degree  an  actual  thief.  The  mountain- 
folk  .  .  .  when  their  spirits  rebel  they  don't  follow  beaten 
paths.  They  don't  know  the  beaten  paths — which  some- 
times don't  exist — and  they  strike  out  in  ways  of  their 
own.  This  man  Nanny  appears  to  have  found  a  new 
and  rather  dangerous  method  of  revenging  an  injury 
which  amounted  to  a  crime.  I  don't  mind  telling  you, 
Rosy,  that  after  I'd  made  a  study  of  all  the  circum- 
stances, and  getting  certain  testimony  of  a  purely  per- 
sonal kind,  I  began  to  cast  about  with  the  hope  of  being 
able  to  do  something  for  the  young  man.  I  never  liked 
to  believe  that  the  law  need  ever  fall  down  completely, 
as  it  seemed  to  have  done  in  this  case.  And  then  I  found 
out  that  he  had  escaped;  and  so  of  course  there  wasn't 
anything  I  could  do." 


314  ROSY 

Rosy  leaned  forward  in  her  chair  and  spoke  with  great 
earnestness:  "And  you're  satisfied,  Judge,  that  he's 
not  a  real  criminal?  You'd  help  him  if  you  could?" 

He  was  still  sitting  with  his  finger-tips  pressed  to- 
gether. After  a  moment  he  said:  "We  like  to  think, 
Rosy,  that  the  law  is  just  sound  common  sense — that 
and  nothing  more.  Sound  common  sense  reduced  to 
applicable  forms  and  formulas.  Nanny  was  tried  and 
condemned  as  a  thief.  But  his  crime — his  offense,  I 
should  say — had  in  it  none  of  the  qualities  which  char- 
acterize thievery.  Viciousness,  cupidity,  dishonesty, 
forgetfulness  of  the  rule  of  meum  et  tuum — none  of  these 
appeared.  Therefore,  no  matter  how  easy  it  might  have 
been  to  misinterpret  the  rules  made  and  provided  in 
such  cases,  it  was  contrary  to  common  sense  to  adjudge 
him  a  thief.  Little  in  the  act  itself,  nothing  in  his 
previous  life,  justified  the  conclusion  that  he  was  a  thief. 
It  might  have  been  very  difficult  for  his  judges  to  sub- 
stitute a  juster  word;  but  if  none  were  ready  at  hand 
they  should  have  saved  themselves  from  error  by  ap- 
plying the  simple  rule  that  the  law  is  common  sense, 
while  then-  verdict  was  folly." 

Rosy  was  breathing  deeply,  absorbing  the  essence  of 
this — every  bit  of  it.  She  took  up  the  thread  of  her 
story  again.  "Judge,  I  know  where  he  is,"  she  said. 
"And  I  want  to  make  things  safe  for  him.  I  want  some 
one  high  in  authority  to  say  just  what  you've  said — that 
he  has  been  wronged.  I  want  it  put  on  paper,  so  that 
everybody  will  know." 

The  judge  was  frowning  with  deepened  perplexity. 
He  said  at  length:  "If  he  would  go  back  to  the  authori- 
ties and  give  himself  up  ...  That  seems  to  have  been 
his  real  offense,  Rosy — to  run  away  when  they  trusted 
him.  It  would  seem  just,  surely,  not  to  extend  clemency 
to  those  who  are  still  in  a  state  of  rebellion.  There  must 


ROSY  313 

first  be  submission — even  to  wrong.    I  mean,  authority 
must  be  withheld,  you  know,  even  when  it  doesn't  quite 

typify  justice.    If  he  could  be  persuaded  to  surrender 
» 

"He  didn't  mean  to  break  his  word,  Judge.  He  came 
up  the  mountain  that  night.  I  talked  with  him.  He 
meant  to  go  back  in  time.  But  there  was  a  storm — 
such  a  storm  as  I  never  saw  on  Moab  before.  And  he 
couldn't  go  back  in  time.  And  while  he  was  in  my 
house " 

"He  could  have  explained  that  to  the  authorities  of 
the  prison.  He  could  have  gone  back  the  next  day. 
*  Better  late,'  you  know  .  .  ." 

It  was  Rosy's  time  to  frown  now.  She  said,  after  a 
battle  with  herself:  "I  kain't  bear  to  have  him  go  back — 
to  be  a  convict  again.  Judge  .  .  .  Judge  .  .  ." 

She  flung  her  wrist  across  her  eyes  to  blot  out  her 
tears.  And  then  with  a  new  resolution  she  arose  and 
crossed  the  room  to  where  he  sat.  She  leaned  against 
a  desk  close  to  him.  She  began  to  speak  again,  in  a 
calm  voice  now,  as  if  she  had  only  just  begun.  Little 
by  little  she  explained  why  Zeb  had  not  gone  back,  and 
what  it  was  that  he  had  done  instead. 

And  the  judge,  at  first  lost  in  pity  for  her,  and  in 
wonder,  was  strangely  aroused  presently  by  a  sense  of 
something  familiar  and  fine.  He  brought  his  senses  to 
bear  upon  her  intently,  and  as  she  proceeded  his  face 
became,  gradually,  a  wonderful  study  in  amazement,  and 
at  last  hi  triumph.  The  story  she  was  telling — how  it 
would  ring  across  the  land  when  all  the  world  might 
hear  it !  How  simple,  yet  how  splendid  it  was ! 

When  she  had  finished  she  stood  looking  down  at 
him,  her  hands  clasping  the  desk  behind  her.  "Judge 
.  .  .  Kain't  you  do  it  for  him — now?" 

"  God  bless  us  all !"  the  judge  exclaimed  at  last.    And 


316  ROSY 

then,  with  a  return  of  the  old  Moab  manner — the  manner 
of  kindly  banter  and  beaming  eyes — he  added:  "And 
you  don't  think,  Rosy,  that  a  fellow  like  that  ought 
to  go  back  to  prison?" 

"No,  Judge!"  she  said. 

He  brought  his  clinched  hand  down  on  the  arm  of 
his  chair  mightily,  joyously.  "Then,"  he  cried,  "Dad 
burn  me,  he  shall  not  go  back !" 

He  crossed  the  room  to  a  distant  desk;  and  a  mo- 
ment later  he  was  speaking  at  the  telephone.  Rosy 
heard  him  inquire  in  his  wonted  genial,  rather  dry  voice: 
"Is  this  the  governor's  residence?"  And  then:  "Is 
the  governor  there?" 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

ALTHOUGH  autumn  clouds  were  obscuring  the  moun- 
tain when  Rosy  reached  it  late  the  next  day,  she  felt 
more  elated  than  she  should  have  done  if  a  score  of  suns 
had  been  shining.  If  all  the  barriers  between  herself 
and  an  untroubled  future  had  not  been  removed,  at 
least  she  could  reflect  that  glorious  things  had  come  to 
pass. 

For  the  moment  she  was  dwelling  ecstatically  over  a 
certain  stipulation  the  Powells  had  made:  she  was  to 
be  married  in  their  house !  The  judge  was  to  give  her 
away.  He  had  said  in  his  whimsical  way:  "I  want  to 
give  you  away,  Rosy — and  then  afterward  I'll  feel  that 
I've  got  a  special  right  to  keep  you ! " 

She  had  not  lacked  a  full  appreciation  of  all  that 
this  would  mean.  In  the  minds  of  many  persons  there 
had  been  a  stain  on  the  name  of  Zeb  Nanny.  In  a  tech- 
nical sense  something  of  that  stain  might  be  thought  to 
remain — or  so  it  might  seem  to  certain  individuals  who 
placed  the  letter  of  the  law  above  its  spirit.  But  would 
not  that  stain  be  forever  wiped  away  when  Judge  Powell, 
famed  for  his  skill  as  a  lawyer,  and  for  his  stanch  sup- 
port of  right,  opened  his  door  to  Zeb  on  his  wedding- 
day,  and  gave  to  him  in  marriage  the  girl  who  was  all 
but  a  daughter  to  him? 

Moreover,  Mrs.  Powell  was  to  have  her  wedding-dress 
made  for  her. 

When  Rosy  had  demurred  at  this  on  the  ground  that 
it  would  not  seem  proper,  Mrs.  Powell  had  asked: 
"WouM  you  like  to  have  me  give  you  your  wedding- 

317 


3i8  ROSY 

dress,  Rosy?"  And  when  she  had  confessed,  with 
delicious  embarrassment,  that  she  should  like  it,  her 
old  friend  had  replied  promptly:  "Then  you  may  be 
sure  it  will  be  quite  proper." 

Judge  Powell  had  not  succeeded  in  communicating 
with  the  governor  the  night  before.  The  governor  had 
not  been  at  home,  and  was  not  expected  to  return  until 
the  next  day.  But  the  judge  had  given  his  word  to  Rosy 
that  he  would  not  rest  until  he  had  obtained  an  uncon- 
ditional pardon  for  Zeb  Nanny,  if  such  a  thing  were 
possible,  and  he  had  given  her  almost  positive  assur- 
ance that  she  might  expect  to  have  the  pardon  in  her 
hands  within  the  next  forty-eight  hours. 

She  came  up  the  mountain  afoot,  because  to  have 
waited  for  any  one  to  convey  her  would  have  meant  a 
delay.  Happiness  gave  her  strength,  and  she  was  in 
no  mood  to  remain  passive  even  for  an  instant.  She 
walked  eagerly,  joyously,  as  another  person  might  have 
shouted  or  sung.  And  although  the  clouds  gathered 
more  darkly  about  her  as  she  advanced,  she  was  scarcely 
aware  of  them.  She  had  made  the  great  adventure, 
and  she  had  succeeded — she  knew  she  had  succeeded. 
Why,  then,  should  she  mind  a  cloudy  sky? 

She  stopped  to  speak  to  Jacob  Feld,  much  as  if  she 
had  been  away  for  ages.  She  asked  him  if  anything 
had  happened — as  if  her  house  might  have  mouldered 
away  and  fallen,  as  if  the  horse  and  the  chickens  might 
have  died  of  old  age.  And  she  smiled  happily  in  re- 
sponse to  Feld's  reassuring  smile.  No,  nothing  had 
happened. 

She  opened  her  door  with  trembling  fingers,  and  once 
inside  the  house  she  paused  and  listened  intently.  She 
said  to  herself:  "I  wonder  what  he  is  doing?"  She 
thought:  "Suppose  I  should  find  that  he  has  gone 
away!"  She  knew  that  she  could  have  nothing  more 


ROSY  319 

to  ask  from  life,  if  she  should  find  that  he  was  her  guest 
no  more,  that  she  should  never  have  to  think  of  him 
again.  If  only  something  might  happen  to  induce  him 
to  go  before  Zeb  came ! 

She  flung  her  suitcase  aside  unopened.  She  pulled 
the  pins  from  her  hat  and  dropped  the  hat  on  the  bed. 
She  stood  before  her  mirror  and  ran  her  fingers  through 
her  hair  again  and  again.  She  was  saying  to  herself, 
as  if  from  the  habit  of  responsibility:  "I  must  go  and 
tell  him  I  have  come  home."  But  another  train  of 
fancies  was  running  high  and  strong  above  her  con- 
cern for  the  man  who  was  in  hiding.  She  was  thinking: 
"What  will  everybody  say  when  the  paper  in  Pisgah 
says  that  I  am  to  be  married  in  Little  Rock,  in  Judge 
Powell's  house?" 

She  went  out  of  the  house,  into  the  night  where  a 
storm  was  brooding.  She  approached  the  old  well  and 
called  warily:  "I  am  here!"  And  she  lingered,  with 
apprehensive  face,  until  she  heard  the  grinding  of  a 
shoe  on  the  rocky  floor  of  the  cavern.  She  went  back 
into  the  house  then  and  began  to  work  in  the  kitchen. 
Her  sense  of  obligation  awoke  in  her.  She  meant  to 
prepare  a  good  supper,  with  everything  nice  and  in- 
viting. After  all,  she  was  entertaining  a  guest — and  how 
greatly,  to  the  end  of  her  life,  she  should  be  indebted 
to  that  guest ! 

She  scarcely  heard  the  sound  of  the  door  opening  and 
of  footsteps  on  the  threshold,  nor  of  the  voice  addressing 
her:  "And  so  you've  made  the  great  trip  to  the  Rock 
and  come  back  alive!" 

The  words  were  a  jest,  but  there  was  a  sneer  in  them 
too;  and  she  turned  about  for  a  second  and  looked  at 
him,  a  little  startled,  a  little  pained.  Then  she  said 
quietly:  "Yes,  I  have  come  back." 

He  seemed  scarcely  to  have  missed  her,  she  thought. 


320  ROSY 

He  went  to  the  door  and  looked  out.  In  a  dreary  tone 
he  said,  without  turning:  "It  looks  like  rain."  And  it 
came  to  her  again  that  he  was  a  singularly  little  creature, 
seeing  trifling  ills,  and  remaining  blind  to  the  looming 
shame  which  wrapped  him  about. 

He  sat  about,  watching  her  with  mild  interest  that 
evening  and  the  next  day.  He  could  see  that  she  was 
a  changed  creature,  but  he  could  not  fathom  the  change 
which  had  occurred  in  her,  and  he  would  not  ask  her 
what  it  was  that  had  happened. 

Once  (toward  the  end  of  the  next  afternoon)  he 
yawned  loudly  and  said:  "It's  a  gay  life  I'm  leading,  I 
must  say." 

She  went  on  sewing,  with  a  rapt  expression  in  her 
eyes;  and  after  an  interval  she  looked  up  at  him  with 
a  start  and  said:  "What?  What  did  you  say?"  She 
had  not  heard  him. 

He  was  offended,  and  turned  away  from  her  moodily 
and  did  not  repeat  what  he  had  said.  But  after  a  time 
he  remarked:  "You're  tired  of  having  me  around  here, 
Rosy — I  can  see  that." 

She  replied  evenly:   "I  haven't  said  so." 

"But,  never  mind,"  he  added.  "I'll  be  going  soon. 
I've  made  up  my  mind.  Put  up  with  me  another  day 
or  two — that's  all  I  ask.  You'd  not  care  to  know  what 
my  plans  are.  I'll  not  bore  you  with  them.  But  just 
make  the  best  of  things  for  another  day  or  two  and  then 
I'll  be  gone." 

She  feared  to  look  up — though  she  knew  his  back 
was  toward  her;  and  she  was  afraid  to  speak,  lest  her 
voice  should  rise  to  a  great  shout  of  relief.  She  was 
unwilling  to  pretend  regret  or  to  betray  relief — lest  he 
might  change  his  mind.  But  her  pulses  pounded.  He 
was  going  away !  In  a  day  or  two  he  would  be  gone ! 


ROSY  321 

And  then  Zeb  would  come  and  find  her  as  she  wished  to 
be  found,  alone ! 

The  clouds  which  had  greeted  her  upon  her  return 
home  deepened  during  that  second  afternoon.  The 
mountain  was  surrounded  by  a  dense  veil;  river  and 
town  and  valley  were  as  if  they  had  never  been.  But 
Rosy  worked  on  unceasingly.  New  avenues  had  been 
opened  for  her  energies  and  for  her  dreams  too.  She 
had  been  fired  with  new  ideals  by  her  visit  to  the  Powells. 
They  had  been  good  to  her;  and  not  in  a  patronizing 
way,  but  in  a  way  which  made  her  respect  herself  more 
highly.  She  was  going  to  become  almost  like  a  daughter 
to  them.  She  was  to  be  married  in  their  lovely  home. 
She  thought  about  this  constantly;  and  about  the  judge's 
promise  too.  She  thought  almost  every  minute  about 
the  pardon  that  was  coming,  which  was  on  its  way  to 
her.  What  a  moment  that  would  be,  when  it  lay  in 
her  hand!  And  she  thought  of  the  soldier  who  was 
coming  to  claim  her.  In  a  few  days  now,  she  could  ven- 
ture to  hope.  She  did  not  know  just  when,  but  it  would 
be  soon. 

The  day  ended;  the  supper-hour  passed,  and  Rosy 
took  her  place  by  the  lamp  in  the  front  room  and  took 
her  sewing  into  her  hands.  Minturn  did  not  seem  dis- 
posed to  go  away  to  his  own  place,  and  she  did  not  mind. 
She  thought:  "He  will  go  before  long."  She  thought 
that  perhaps  he  shrank  from  going  away  by  himself 
because  of  the  feeling  as  of  coming  storm  in  the  atmos- 
phere. An  ominous  stillness  wrapped  the  mountain. 
The  night  was  black.  And  Rosy  thought  of  that  other 
night  of  storm,  when  a  hand  had  been  laid  on  her  window- 
sill — and  all  the  currents  of  her  life  had  been  changed. 

Minturn  had  found  something  to  read,  and  he  sat  on 
the  other  side  of  the  table  from  her,  turning  a  page 
occasionally.  She  glanced  at  him  and  felt  her  heart 


322  ROSY 

softening  in  an  inexplicable  way.  He  was  weak — that 
was  all.  And  surely  weakness  was  to  be  pitied  rather 
than  hated.  She  would  not  employ  any  of  the  delicate 
methods  by  which  she  might  make  him  feel  that  she 
wished  him  to  go  away.  If  he  wished  to  remain  near 
her,  let  him  do  so.  It  would  not  be  for  long,  now;  he 
had  promised  to  go  away  for  good  and  all  in  another 
day  or  two. 

Hours  passed  and  the  man  and  woman  in  the  room 
scarcely  stirred.  Rosy  was  too  blissfully  wrapped  in 
dreams  to  mark  the  passing  of  the  hours,  and  Minturn's 
book  continued  to  hold  him.  If  an  outsider  could  have 
looked  into  the  room  for  a  moment  he  might  have  mis- 
taken that  picture  for  one  of  deep  contentment.  And 
neither  the  man  nor  the  woman  who  sat  there  could 
have  guessed  that  this  long  silence  was  only  a  prelude 
to  the  breaking  of  high  drama,  swift  and  terrible. 

The  clock  ticked  monotonously;  Minturn  turned 
another  page;  the  ominous  silence  without  steadily 
deepened. 

And  then  there  was  an  almost  furtive  tapping  at  the 
door. 

The  man  and  the  woman  in  the  room  started  as  if 
they  were  guilty  creatures.  They  looked  at  each  other 
incredulously — as  if  perhaps  they  thought  they  had 
been  dreaming,  and  that  there  had  really  been  no  sum- 
mons at  all.  And  then  Rosy  laid  her  work  aside  and 
arose  stealthily.  She  turned  her  startled  face  toward 
her  companion  and  indicated  by  a  glance  that  he  must 
retire,  if  he  meant  to  do  so;  and  when  he  was  gone — 
when  his  footsteps  had  died  away  through  the  kitchen 
door  and  beyond — she  advanced  and  laid  her  hand  on 
the  latch.  Slowly  she  opened  the  door. 

In  the  intense  darkness  she  caught  the  impression 
of  a  statue  standing  there;  of  a  statue,  yet  of  a  figure 


ROSY  323 

in  a  man's  clay-colored  garments,  and  with  eyes  which 
pierced  the  gloom,  and  caught  the  glow  of  her  lamp  on 
the  table,  and  burned  like  coals  on  a  dead  hearth.  And 
then  there  was  a  voice — tremulous  with  an  eagerness 
which,  too  long  confined,  seemed  spilling  over:  "Rosy !" 
And  then,  with  a  deeper  intensity:  "Rosy  I" 

She  put  her  hand  out  to  him  and  drew  him  into  the 
room.  She  closed  the  door  behind  him.  And  then  while 
her  mind  seemed  to  halt,  overcome  with  joy,  her  arms 
performed  their  allotted  task  as  if  they  moved  involun- 
tarily. He  was  drawn  with  a  frantic  eagerness  against 
her  breast.  His  campaign  hat  fell  to  the  floor  unnoticed. 
There  flashed  before  her  the  realization  that  he  had 
only  one  hand  with  which  to  return  her  caresses,  and 
her  breast  began  to  rise  and  fall  with  pity  in  which  also 
there  was  the  rapture  of  one  greatly  privileged  and 
blessed.  She  pressed  his  head  to  her  breast  in  silence, 
and  presently  she  uttered  a  low,  inarticulate  cry,  and 
when  he  lifted  his  head  obediently,  she  kissed  him  on 
the  lips.  Again  she  drew  his  head  down  to  her  breast, 
and  laid  her  cheek  against  his  hair  in  an  ecstasy  of  shame 
and  rapture.  He  had  come  back,  and  he  was  hers !  The 
strength  which  had  been  his  was  his  no  more;  it  had 
been  offered  up  on  those  shrines  in  France  whose  fires 
were  to  purify  a  world  and  preserve  the  things  which  j 
have  been  right  from  the  beginning  and  which  shall ' 
remain  right  unto  the  end.  But  he  had  come  back  and 
he  was  hers. 

And  then  a  terrible  loud  noise  drove  them  asunder; 
as  if  the  actor  who  had  come  back  had  brought  with 
him  a  moment  from  the  play.  It  was  a  clap  of  thunder, 
incredibly  loud  in  the  night  silence.  It  died  away  with 
long,  lingering  reverberations,  until  infinite  spaces  had 
absorbed  it  in  the  gorges  and  glens  of  the  mountain,  and 
the  caverns  and  forests,  and  the  surrounding  valleys.  . 


324  ROSY 

She  saw  an  expression  in  his  eyes,  as  of  an  image  of 
a  hundred  days  and  nights  of  shuddering  tumult.  She 
put  her  hands  on  his  eyes  as  if  they  were  a  balm  to  draw 
the  pain  away.  "It's  only  the  thunder,"  she  whispered. 
But  her  voice  broke  and  she  drew  his  face  toward  her 
with  a  kind  of  slow  solemnity,  as  if  it  were  a  goblet  filled 
with  an  elixir.  She  fitted  her  lips  to  his  as  if  she  would 
put  a  seal  upon  all  memories  of  anguish  and  darkness. 
"It  is  only  the  thunder,"  she  repeated,  as  a  mother 
speaks  to  a  troubled  child. 

It  came  again;  and  following  it,  almost  incredibly, 
there  came  again  a  knock  at  the  door. 

When  he  stepped  aside  she  opened  the  door  jealously 
and  looked  out.  Jacob  Feld  stood  there  in  the  dark- 
ness. 

"I  saw  your  light  burning,  Rosy,"  he  said  apologeti- 
cally. "I  could  have  waited  until  to-morrow;  but  I 
thought  maybe  .  .  .  you  see,  I  came  up  from  Pisgah 
late  to-night,  and  there  was  a  letter  for  you.  A  letter 
from  Little  Rock."  She  thought  he  was  smiling  strangely 
as  he  stood  there  in  the  darkness.  But  was  he  smiling? 
His  lips  were  trembling  ...  He  placed  an  official  en- 
velope in  her  hands  and  turned  away. 

She  closed  the  door  and  stepped  close  to  the  light 
and  tore  the  envelope  open.  She  drew  the  single  crisp 
sheet  from  its  place  and  opened  it  and  began  to  read 
aloud: 

"To  whom  .  .  . 

...  I  have  this  day  granted  a  full  and  complete 
pardon  to  Zebulon  Nanny  .  .  ." 

She  was  interrupted  by  a  blinding  light  that  filled 
the  hut.  The  thunder  was  shaking  the  mountain  again, 
following  close  upon  the  lightning,  which  seemed  to 
have  entered  the  very  room,  to  have  occupied  all  the 
space  in  the  universe.  But  this  time,  added  to  the  roll 


ROSY  315 

of  the  thunder,  there  was  a  nearer  sound,  a  great  crash- 
ing which  made  the  hut  tremble.  It  came  from  the 
mountain  slope,  it  crossed  the  road,  it  progressed  in- 
exorably past  the  hut. 

Rosy  flung  the  door  open  in  terror.  Jacob  Feld  was 
standing  out  in  the  road,  his  lantern  lifted  to  a  level 
with  his  face. 

She  called  to  him  in  a  startled  voice:  "What  is  it, 
Mr.  Feld?"  She  emerged  from  her  place  and  joined 
him  in  the  road. 

"I  think  the  Sphinx  Rock  has  gone  at  last,"  he  said. 

They  went  together  a  little  way  along  the  road.  The 
great  spherical  mass  of  granite  was  in  its  place  no  more. 
Trees  had  been  crushed  to  the  earth  where  it  had  rolled 
down  the  slope.  The  stones  in  the  road  were  ground 
to  dust;  a  length  of  stone  wall  had  been  swept  away. 
They  followed  in  the  wake  of  that  resistless  force  until 
they  reached  the  spot  where  it  had  come  to  rest. 

The  old  well  which  Rosy's  father  had  blasted  from  the 
rock  was  visible  no  more.  The  Sphinx  Rock  had  stopped 
in  its  progress  just  in  this  spot,  to  remain  unmoved 
through  all  eternity,  or  until  a  new  epoch  in  time  should 
remove  the  very  mountain  from  its  foundations. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

ROSY  stood  in  her  place,  overwhelmed  by  the  terrible 
pictures  which  rushed  upon  her  brain.  She  was  behold- 
ing that  cavern  which  had  been  a  region  of  vague  yet 
splendid  dreams  throughout  her  childhood,  but  which 
had  become  a  place  of  dark,  ignoble  tragedy. 

For  the  moment  she  could  not  imagine  any  means 
of  escape  for  the  man  who  was  imprisoned  there;  and 
she  thought  of  what  would  happen  as  time  passed — 
after  the  first  moments  of  agonized  terror  were  over. 
She  thought  of  him  drinking  sparingly  from  the  water- 
jar  against  the  day  when  he  should  have  nothing  more 
to  drink,  or  turning  the  wick  of  his  lamp  low  lest  the 
oil  be  consumed  too  speedily.  And  then  she  beheld 
a  fearful  vision  of  the  passing  years,  and  the  weight  of 
a  guilty  secret  pressing  her  down  and  poisoning  her 
life,  and  abiding  with  her  by  day  and  night  and  build- 
ing barriers  between  herself  and  all  whom  she  loved. 

She  knew  that  Jacob  Feld  had  lifted  his  lantern  high 
again  and  was  peering  darkly  into  her  eyes;  but  for 
the  moment  she  could  not  bear  to  acknowledge  to  any 
other  living  creature  the  terror  which  assailed  her.  She 
was  too  greatly  stunned  to  think,  really.  She  mur- 
mured: "I  must  have  a  little  time  .  .  ."  And  she 
turned  from  the  old  man  and  went  into  her  house.  She 
closed  her  door  behind  her,  perhaps  with  the  thought 
of  shutting  out  the  consciousness  of  a  situation  which 
was  too  dreadful  to  contemplate. 

Certain  tasks  which  were  unfinished  came  back  to 

326 


ROSY  327 

claim  the  partial  exercise  of  her  faculties.  The  gaunt, 
strangely  passive  yet  intense  figure  in  uniform  faced 
her  calmly;  solicitously,  yet  without  a  hint  of  agitation. 

"It  was  the  Sphinx  Rock,"  she  explained.  "It  has 
fallen."  Then,  as  if  she  had  no  words  at  her  command, 
she  took  up  the  pardon  which  she  had  flung  on  the  table 
and  looked  at  it  again.  A  faint  beam  came  into  her 
eyes;  a  delicate  color  warmed  her  cheeks.  She  ad- 
vanced, with  the  air  of  one  who  performs  a  rite,  and 
placed  the  document  in  the  soldier's  hands. 

"For  me?"  he  asked  wonderingly;  and  then  he  read. 

She  felt  that  the  joy  of  life  had  come  back  to  her  an 
instant  later  when  he  read  slowly,  with  a  steady  bright- 
ness kindling  in  his  eyes.  He  moved,  as  if  he  could  not 
trust  his  eyes,  closer  to  the  light.  He  read  aloud:  "... 
a  full  and  complete  pardon  to  Zebulon  Nanny  .  .  ." 
He  dropped  the  sheet  to  the  table  and  turned  to  her 
with  rapture.  "Rosy!"  he  cried,  "who  did  it  for  me? 
It  was  you  .  .  ." 

She  had  her  arms  about  him  again.  "It  was  your 
right,"  she  declared.  "It  would  have  been  done  long 
ago  if  they  had  known." 

He  turned  from  her  and  picked  up  the  written  sheet 
again.  He  reread  the  words  deliberately,  as  if  to  be 
sure  of  them.  "  If  I  had  known,"  he  said,  smiling  faintly, 
"if  I  had  known  .  .  .  you  know,  coming  home  .  .  ." 

She  stood  looking  up  at  him.  "Yes,  tell  me  about 
that,"  she  said. 

"I  got  off  at  a  station  down  the  road.  I  was  afraid 
somebody  would  see  me — somebody  who  would  know 
me.  I  waited  until  after  dark,  and  then  I  walked.  When 
I  came  up  the  mountain — I  had  escaped  every  one,  you 
see — it  came  back  to  me  .  .  .  that  other  time  when  I 
came  up  the  same  road.  I  was  thinking  that  after  I'd 
seen  you  and  my  father  I'd — I'd  go  back  and  give  my- 


328  ROSY 

self  up,  and  have  it  all  over  with.  But  this — this  .  .  ." 
He  folded  the  sheet  and  held  it  close  to  him  and  looked 
at  her  with  rapturous  eyes. 

"Zeb,  dear!"  she  cried. 

He  sat  down  in  her  chair  and  drew  her  down  beside 
him.  She  found  a  hassock  and  sat  close  to  him,  resting 
her  elbow  on  his  knee.  He  put  his  arm  across  her  shoul- 
der; and  for  the  moment  both  knew  that  stillness  which 
is  better  than  speech.  She  was  supremely  happy  until 
her  mind  wandered  a  little,  and  she  thought  with  a  start 
of  the  fallen  Sphinx  Rock,  and  of  the  prison — which 
would  be  a  prison  forevermore — where  Minturn  must  be 
crouching  and  trembling  in  the  dark. 

And  then  quite  suddenly  she  saw  precisely  what  she 
must  do. 

She  arose  quickly.  "Wait,"  she  whispered.  She  left 
her  hut  and  closed  the  door  behind  her.  She  hurried 
along  the  bench  in  the  direction  of  Jacob  Feld's  resi- 
dence. 

She  thought  it  strange  that  a  light  should  be  burning 
in  Feld's  house.  It  was  very  late.  She  mounted  his 
steps  and  tapped  at  his  door  a  little  wonderingly. 

Old  Jacob  was  standing  quite  still  beside  a  table  on 
which  an  envelope  was  lying. 

"Yes,  Rosy?"  he  said,  turning  to  her. 

"It's  come  to  me  what  I  ought  to  do — what  I  must 
do,"  she  said,  a  little  breathlessly.  "You  know  the 
cavern  where — where  he  is  ...  There  is  an  opening 
in  the  side  of  the  mountain.  He  could  be  reached  if 
men  brought  things  from  Minturn's  quarry — a  cable 
and  a  derrick,  things  like  that.  Couldn't  he  ?  It  means 
...  his  father  must  be  told.  He  must  be  told  to-night. 
So  that  they  can  get  to  work  right  away.  So  that  it 
can  be  done  before  daylight,  if  possible."  She  paused, 
trying  to  catch  the  expression  in  the  old  man's  eyes. 


ROSY  329 

Would  he  understand  how  imperative  it  was  that  some- 
thing be  done  immediately? 

"I'd  thought  of  that,"  said  Feld.  "I  was  only  think- 
ing of  you.  I  mean,  I  was  waiting  for  you  to  speak  the 
word.  I'll  go  to  Minturn — to-night.  And  you  needn't 
think  I'll  mind,  Rosy.  You've  been  thinking  you  ought 
not  to  let  me  know — that  it  might  get  me  into  trouble, 
more  than  it  would  another,  on  account  I'm  a  Ger- 
man." 

He  moved  farther  away  from  her  and  stood  by  the 
table,  his  hand  reaching  for  the  envelope  which  lay  there. 
She  saw  that  his  fingers  trembled  slightly,  and  she  per- 
ceived again  that  expression  as  of  a  strange  smile  on 
his  lips,  which  were  quivering. 

"Though  I'm  not  a  German,  Rosy.  They'll  never 
want  to  call  me  that  no  more.  I've  come  into  this  new 
house — this  America — to  be  obedient  and  grateful. 
I've  stopped  at  the  door  and  bought  my  ticket,  Rosy, 
now!"  He  took  up  the  envelope  from  the  table  and 
slowly  lifted  his  head  high.  The  paper  crackled  in  his 
hand.  "I — I've  given  my  son  .  .  ." 

And  she  knew  what  that  envelope  contained. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Feld  !"  she  cried.  She  drew  helplessly  near 
him.  She  took  his  trembling  hand  and  brought  it  to 
her  lips.  "Oh,  Mr.  Feld!"  she  cried  again. 

He  put  the  envelope  back  on  the  table.  "I'd  better 
be  starting,"  he  said.  "And  Rosy  .  ,  .  you  know  Min- 
turn won't  want  to  say  a  whole  lot  about  what  his  son 
has  been  doing,  or  where  he's  been.  If  he  can  I  think 
maybe  he'll  try  to  get  him  home,  and  hide  him,  or  get 
him  away  somewhere  in  secret.  If  Minturn  never  cared 
a  lot  for  other  people,  nobody  ever  said  yet  that  he  didn't 
think  a  lot  of  himself." 

He  took  up  his  lantern  and  held  it  to  his  ear  and  shook 
it,  to  determine  if  it  had  oil  enough  in  it  to  last  during 


330  ROSY 

the  journey  down  the  mountain  and  back.  And  even 
in  that  moment  he  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to 
have  his  little  joke.  "But  you,  Rosy,"  he  said,  "what 
am  I  to  think  of  you?  Hiding  a  man  who  should  be 
a  soldier,  and  President  Wilson  asking  for  soldiers  all 
the  time!  Eh,  Rosy?" 

She  knew  he  was  smiling  in  his  mild,  puckered  fashion, 
though  she  was  not  looking  at  him.  She  replied  simply: 
"I  hid  a  weakling,  so  that  I  might  send  a  man  to  Mr. 
Wilson!" 

He  nodded,  well  pleased.  "So  you  did,"  he  said. 
And  then  he  turned  away — ready,  as  always,  to  serve 
her. 

She  wondered  how  she  could  thank  him,  but  she 
waited  too  long;  and  presently  she  was  standing  alone 
and  Jacob  Feld's  sturdy,  short  legs  were  moving  away 
by  the  distant  lantern  light. 

When  she  returned  to  her  house  Nanny  was  standing 
in  the  doorway,  casting  an  appraising  glance  toward 
the  sky.  He  began  cheerfully:  "I  don't  believe  we're 
going  to  have  a  storm,  after  all.  It  seems  to  have  spent 
itself  in  thunder  and  lightning."  He  continued,  as  he 
followed  her  into  the  house:  "I'll  be  going  now,  Rosy. 
My  father  will  be  wanting  to  see  me." 

He  drew  her  close,  and  wondered  what  could  have 
brought  that  dreamy  expression  into  her  eyes.  She 
said:  "Your  father  ...  of  course  you  must  go  to  him. 
And  Zeb — give  your  father  my  love,  won't  you?  And 
tell  him  I  kept  my  word.  He'll  understand." 

He  responded,  a  little  puzzled:  "Well,  I'll  tell  him." 
He  added:  "I'll  be  coming  back  to-morrow,  and  I'll  not 
have  to  hide  along  the  way.  And  Rosy  .  .  .  we'll  be 
married  soon,  so  that  I'll  not  have  to  come  and  go  any 
more — so  that  we'll  both  be  with  father,  and  nothing 
can  separate  us  any  more." 


ROSY  331 

She  replied  with  perfect  simplicity.  "As  soon  as  you 
wish,"  she  said.  "  You  can  set  the  day.  I'll  be  ready 
almost  any  time."  She  felt  a  delicious  embarrassment, 
but  she  would  not  lower  her  eyes.  It  was  too  glorious. 
watching  the  pain  fade  from  his  face  and  the  rosy  vision 
of  the  future  touching  it  with  joy  and  repose.  She  told 
him  they  were  to  be  married  at  Judge  Powell's,  if  he 
didn't  mind.  Could  he  come  to  fetch  her  there? 

He  did  not  seem  quite  duly  impressed  by  this  state- 
ment. He  only  said:  "Yes,  anywhere." 

And  then  a  mood  of  wifely  solicitude  came  to  her. 
She  put  his  hat  into  his  hand.  "If  you  could  only  stay 
a  little  longer ! "  she  said;  " but  Jacob  Feld  is  going  down 
the  mountain — he's  going  over  your  way.  And  he's  got 
a  lantern.  If  you'll  hurry  a  little  you'll  overtake  him 
on  the  road.  He  is  going  over  to  see  Rufus  Minturn 
about  something.  And — I'll  look  for  you  to-morrow?" 

She  watched  him  leave  her  door.  She  left  the  door 
open,  and  when  she  heard  his  footsteps  out  on  the  road 
she  went  and  stood  in  the  doorway.  Around  a  curve 
in  the  bench  road  she  caught  the  gleam  of  Jacob  Feld's 
lantern,  and  she  knew  the  eager  feet  of  the  younger 
man  would  speedily  overtake  that  guiding  light.  She 
stood  until  the  last  glimmer  of  the  lantern  had  faded  from 
her  sight  and  until  the  sound  of  the  retreating  feet  could 
be  heard  no  more. 

The  night  had  become  alive  again.  It  seemed  to  be 
singing  to  her,  calmly,  with  a  hint  of  everlasting  peace. 
It  seemed  to  be  soothing  her  with  its  message  of  per- 
manency, of  safety. 

She  sighed  deeply,  though  her  lips  were  smiling;  and 
then  she  closed  her  door. 


A     000  120  094     8 


